by Amy Clampitt

    While you walk the water's edge，

    turning over concepts

    I can't envision， the honking¹ buoy²

    serves notice that at any time

    the wind may change，

    the reef-bell clatters³

    its treble monotone， deaf as Cassandra

    to any note but warning. The ocean，

    cumbered by no business more urgent

    than keeping open old accounts

    that never balanced，

    goes on shuffling⁴ its millenniums

    of quartz⁵， granite⁶， and basalt.

    It behaves

    toward the permutations of novelty——

    driftwood and shipwreck⁷， last night's

    beer cans， spilt oil， the coughed-up

    residue⁸ of plastic——with random⁹

    impartiality¹⁰， playing catch or tag

    or touch-last like a terrier，

    turning the same thing over and over，

    over and over. For the ocean， nothing

    is beneath consideration.

    The houses

    of so many mussels and periwinkles

    have been abandoned here， it's hopeless

    to know which to salvage¹¹. Instead

    I keep a lookout¹² for beach glass——

    amber¹³ of Budweiser， chrysoprase

    of Almadén and Gallo， lapis

    by way of （no getting around it，

    I'm afraid） Phillips'

    Milk of Magnesia， with now and then a rare

    translucent¹⁴ turquoise¹⁵ or blurred¹⁶ amethyst¹⁷

    of no known origin.

    The process

    goes on forever： they came from sand，

    they go back to gravel¹⁸，

    along with treasuries¹⁹

    of Murano， the buttressed²⁰

    astonishments of Chartres，

    which even now are readying

    for being turned over and over as gravely

    and gradually as an intellect

    engaged in the hazardous²¹

    redefinition of structures

    no one has yet looked at.

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