Dave Bonta's poem treats a wound as something strangely useful. It works like a mirror, gathering up "the squandered coins" of earlier versions of the speaker, selves who were easier to read before daily life with weather, lovers and money wore them smooth. The pain keeps the past sharp.
The second stanza pushes this further. Only a wound, the speaker suggests, lets you "wear the heart on the sleeve again," meaning to be openly vulnerable once more. The wound even seems hungry, "eager to fold in upon itself" and close a loop of feeling feeding on itself. Then the focus shifts outdoors. A butterfly's shadow shrinks and vanishes, and the speaker turns, raising a hand against the sun, which wears a "crown of blazing thorns." That image hints at suffering and sacrifice, though the poem leaves its meaning open.
The mood is quiet, strange and tender, with a mix of ache and grudging gratitude. Pain here is costly, but it also keeps the speaker feeling alive.