by Amy Clampitt

    While you walk the water's edge，

    turning over concepts

    I can't envision， the honking buoy

    serves notice that at any time

    the wind may change，

    the reef-bell clatters

    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 shuffling its millenniums

    of quartz， granite， and basalt.

    It behaves

    toward the permutations of novelty——

    driftwood and shipwreck， last night's

    beer cans， spilt oil， the coughed-up

    residue of plastic——with random

    impartiality， 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 salvage. Instead

    I keep a lookout for beach glass——

    amber 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

    translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst

    of no known origin.

    The process

    goes on forever： they came from sand，

    they go back to gravel，

    along with treasuries

    of Murano， the buttressed

    astonishments of Chartres，

    which even now are readying

    for being turned over and over as gravely

    and gradually as an intellect

    engaged in the hazardous

    redefinition of structures

    no one has yet looked at.