I keep shells by me
In this artificial place.
I pose single shells,
Fluted cockles,
On book shelf marges;
Drifts of shells,
Clams, pens, oysters, whelks,
A potpourri of shapes,
Fill glass jars on sills;
Fossil shells, scallops, mussels,
Aged ten million years or more,
Disclose their stony flow
Among the rest.
And yet
My shell-like ear
Waits in vain
For the sound of surf
On a shore.
