Beach Glass

　　by Amy Clampitt

　　While you walk the water's edge，

　　turning over concepts

　　I can't envision， the honking buoy

　　serves notice that at any time

　　the wind may change，

　　the reef-bell clatters

　　its treble monotone， deaf as Cassandra.

　　to any note but warning. The ocean，

　　cumbered by no business more urgent

　　than keeping open old accounts

　　that never balanced，

　　goes on shuffling its millenniums

　　of quartz， granite， and basalt.

　　It behaves

　　toward the permutations of novelty——

　　driftwood and shipwreck， last night's

　　beer cans， spilt oil， the coughed-up

　　residue of plastic——with random

　　impartiality， playing catch or tag

　　or touch-last like a terrier，

　　turning the same thing over and over，

　　over and over. For the ocean， nothing

　　is beneath consideration.

　　The houses

　　of so many mussels and periwinkles

　　have been abandoned here， it's hopeless

　　to know which to salvage. Instead

　　I keep a lookout for beach glass——

　　amber of Budweiser， chrysoprase

　　of Almadén and Gallo， lapis

　　by way of (no getting around it，

　　I'm afraid) Phillips'

　　Milk of Magnesia， with now and then a rare

　　translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst

　　of no known origin.

　　The process

　　goes on forever： they came from sand，

　　they go back to gravel，

　　along with treasuries

　　of Murano， the buttressed

　　astonishments of Chartres，

　　which even now are readying

　　for being turned over and over as gravely

　　and gradually as an intellect

　　engaged in the hazardous

　　redefinition of structures

　　no one has yet looked at.