Ocean Poem Im brackish green glass. Blown in all shapes and curlicues.

For me, to touch is to swallow-but maybe I swallow metaphorically too Dreams, tears, and little corked bottles Rocks spit out all polished. Im a locked museum, and they stand at the entrance, Peering inBut the real exhibit is on the bottom floor. I reluctantly reach down, and give up one of my treasures. They come looking for adventure, for sanctuary, Or just some peace of mind. I scrutinize you from below. I can sense you waiting thereHere to wash away the filth, A chance to rejoin the current, Drown bad memories, Maybe soak in some new ones.