Death of a Fastener
Today I found a rusty wood screw in the street. I suppose this is not odd in and of itself; the streets are littered with rusty, bent, displaced fasteners of all kinds. This is hardly the first one I've picked up. Everything has its story though. Here was this one, all alone, one of millions or billions or perhaps even trillions, all cast,
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For some reason I thought of breath, the knot between the in and the out. It probably makes no sense. But when it "fasten[s] itself painfully to bare feet," I see that this is how it also remembers, secretly and always. I don't think it ever dies. Does it? Perhaps it does when it dissolves in the soil. But strangely, in burying it, you also give it a place and end its restlessness. Perhaps someone else will pick up the one your threw away, the way this one is held for the length of these sentences.
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