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 plasticwith 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 Almadn 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.