Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume One Issue Three
Beach Glass
Ocean almost at a boil, we ran for warmth the
singing sand, the frozen foam, where shards
as from millions of blown-out windows piled
in long descriptions of the night’s high tide.
Tumbled blunt and strewn like cards, these
we couldn’t keep in jars. Those nuggets dis-
played with our wrack-treasures purport
of collaboration between us and the sea.
The shards turned into unsold papers,
the news of more bombs there, more
weather here, with images of Jesus-
clouds and lachrymose Virgins.
The ice-seas weep, and stomping
shattered surf to please our feet,
our ears, is close as we can get
to walking on their waters.