The seagull stands on one leg,
reflected in a tidal pool,
not reflecting.
Why should it
consider the existential?
Maybe it misses
the easy chips, fries,
sandwich crusts of summer,
must rely
on small crabs, quick fish.
Lone men with metal detectors
comb the sand for old coins
or watches
fallen out of pockets, out of use;
others look for trash:
bottles, butts, beer cans,
stray pieces of Styrofoam,
but the beach is empty now.
I search for shells,
their names a litany of childhood:
whelk, scallop, angel’s wings,
conch, cockle, mother-of-pearl,
olive, auger, baby’s ear.
But they’re all broken, stepped on,
crushed, shattered, mixed-up,
mollusks long gone,
shields shed
like hamburger wrappers.
Still I pick up the pieces, spread them out
like loose letters in a game
make disconnected words:
oh help pal lock swing clinch clock juggler.
But broken things have their own pattern:
scattered pelicans rise
from the sea’s surface to form a V;
doves fly out
of a cracked sand dollar.
I let them fall in fragments
as they will, wait
for the new language,
the miracle,
hope I can learn to speak it.
