Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Gene Fox

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.