It was a lean-to one could live in
so long as it never rained. It was
 
a grain of salt close up, looking
like a crystal, growing from itself
 
like an outcrop of land. It was a sail
opened in a storm. A memory lost.
 
A coin tossed at the wrong time,
declaring heads or tails. It had the air
 
of an aristocrat or the stench of a skunk.
No matter who bred it, it couldn’t be fair.
 
It wasn’t a buoy. It kept no one up.
It had the metallic notice of a gong.
 
It was a thoroughbred raced too soon,
or a setting moon, or a button lost or
 
undone. It only had one track and
when it sped up it was sure to derail.
 
It had a smile for a satellite
or a smirk for a son. Everyone
 
thought they recognized its face,
but, one by one, they were wrong.