Sea Glass

I fade and soften
from the unbreakable glass I was,
(whose transparency reckoned it
could hold all light)
not in the way gemstone weight of sea-glass does,
which feels whole in the hand, though undoes, like soap,
the hand, a thing smoothly calloused
that nonetheless scratches
at the cracked dirt of its fingernails,
glass-like, themselves.
Instead, I take the gravel line of the road,
that records the chimes of glass tuning itself,
and glints like sea-salt, but more, I suppose, like seeds,
that are out to be beheld ungrowable.
It’s been a long time since
I wanted to die.
This is a trail that has always been the trail.
I recognize it, it steps ahead,
And plays its instrument,
beating into me, like a shoreline.

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