Smoke and Seashells

Seashells and cardboard
boxes, the old worker
picking grapes, mines full of smoke.

Birds dive into the sea, rolling
down thermals, and it crumbles into nothing.

Our goal is creation, our destiny
may be the honey and the milk.
Replenish my thirst with your stare
and take a word from my throat.

On the edge the land is
constantly crumbling,
cascading in the cold sea.
I pick at the sand
in search of little seashells.
I like the oval ones that
shine all copper in the sun.

They stole it, the black
letters, black caps and silver
badges, towers and bridges
on the skyline. Smoke coming
out of the window where
a woman in a white apron leans out,

to catch the letter on the breeze,
the letter from her lover, gone
to Louisiana last year, that magic
letter written on metal foil
that shines all copper in the sun.