Seethe

There is a curved glass, it reaches out to me.

There to one side, are boxes for shaping, they fit well.

Here then are the pieces to fit--worn smooth with repetition;

fetched from amongst yesterday's drift wood--Do you see?

I fold the damp paper just so, that the creases may hide us from prying.

These little cranes fill jars and jars--Do you see? They fit well.

And they are quiet, no sound, no echoing beach. No rushing.

These then are parts of a farther shore, these little inconsequential things

And here, I gather them to my breast: salt, whistling wind, and dry memory.

There is a place for these things, I know, it reaches out to me.

And I will not stand here for long, these things belong to the sea, not to me.