Roaming one of your thought
neighborhoods, you hear a coin
hit a hard floor, listen as it
oscillates its way into settling flat.
You drift into a vast hall
where a shaft of sunlight
pings off the silvery coin:
you go over, lean, and look.
Symbols on it perplex.
Now a horse snorts,
and the hall becomes a pasture
& the coin becomes
a pendant nestled
in the cleavage of a woman's
brown breasts. "So that belongs
to you, then?" you ask. "No,
but you do," says she.
hans ostrom 2024
