Shifting Faults

The soft brown leather is discolored in places
where I spilled olive oil near it
on my kitchen counter
and it crawled over slowly
and struck a claim along one edge.

The leather is worn thin along the wallet’s folds--
The transactions of opening and closing
having accumulated a physical cost,
as if the heart beat of the wallet
(open close open close open close)
spent up more than its contents.

The hard white thread
that held together raw edges
is now split in places,
as if by fault lines that have shifted underneath
and broken open the land.

Tooled patterns once stamped deep caverns;
they have eroded into shadows
whispering rumors of old and intricate patterns.

I am weary
of opening and closing,
open, close, open-closing;
my edges are raw and so are my eyes.
The fault lines of my heart have shifted
so that my dreams are now fragmented;
hopes have eroded from once deep caverns
to whispering ridges,
and the soft leather of which I am made
has become discolored in places
where life has run into me.