Sparse dove! What is in your Lazarus jewel box?
Do you know what is under your Peruvian hat?
O, my false cup-and-saucer, why are you false?
I wear the heavy bonnet of your deceit; it is
a ghastly miter. Even now, I would be your
Strawberry Top; you could again be my
Woody Canoebubble. The old names, our
old love, under this incised moon–no longer
this shoulderblade sea cat, unequal bittersweet.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 19.
Beach Glass
Not very tumbled.
Not yet opaque, milky.
Still retaining the clarity
of what they are, or were.
Holding the laughter
or anger, hot romance
of a beach night on the rocks
before bottles smashed.
A fight, or an errant toss;
someone too young, too urgent
to attempt to find a trash can
(to say nothing of recycling).
What words passed between,
among the sweet evening air
as swifts replaced seagulls
and bottle rockets flew?
Drop the bottles where you are.
There are more important things.
Maybe someday, someone will
collect the broken shards,
tossed just enough to no longer
cut. See? She tests each one
on her finger; blunted edges
make treasure out of trash.
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia 