a fisherman who found me shells
washed down and rendered by the waves
smooth spirals left in porcelain
for a necklace or an earring

so kept a pocketful of noise
if tidal softened infant teeth
could spell desires holy whorl
salt-milk of wantless memory

the emptied armors of the sea
the genius of her hollowed hand
would ornament my human face
with the ancient allure of regret

//

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