Prints of Tides
This shore is neither of siren nor Circe
I am a child culling shells by whim
Lifting each to sun & ear
to make them come alive
Sand dollar for the penthouse, pale as his skin
Abalone for the image from magazines;
Oh, but they all were pretty,
Razor clams to bleed along his edge
Cast back into the tide
I am still unlearning the art of sea-change