an old, salt-eaten coin

picked up by you under the suspicion it was only a flat stone. heavier than expected for its size. the salt has taken the face, taken the value, taken whatever king or harbour was stamped on the back; what remains is a green disc with a ghost of a profile under the slow work of the sea.

nineteen grams. cool in the palm and slightly tacky to touch — corroded copper does this. closer in spirit to the blue glass than to a working coin; both have stopped pretending to be currency. neither can be spent.

kept in a small dish with the other unspent things. read the season-ring beside it and the silence between them is a calendar. the salt is still finishing the job; in another forty years there will be nothing of this coin but a green print on the dish.