Treasure Hunting


After you leave the house each morning, I walk the wake of your passing, Reaping children’s leavings Like lost intertidal jetsam Stranded by a fleeing sea. Laundry gulping air I toss in billowing piles; Lonely shoes cry out for Lovers—one beneath the table, One beside the stove; Breakfast cups grow old Like oysters languishing in sun, Liquors bilged, spirits dry. I’m the jetty comber Sifting rooms for shells, Knowing, when the evening comes, My love will return to cover All our sands with water; Knowing nothing keeps Save returning, as we keep it.

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