Living guest, I dig my sand-crusted toes
into the shivering heaps
that glimmer like sugared opal,
Like white moss
dipped in the frothing parade

of little once-shells,
the unstitched fabric which once housed
the minute, brilliant creature-lives
skimming the tideline.

The shining intelligence
of the water inundated the wee beasts,
choirs right drowned for it,
and now the calcite ornaments lie nameless,
percussing the knowledge

we visitors seek exhaustively in the
humming chambers of a conch,
sheltering faithfully in its resonant heart
some unvocabularied wisdom

of the scytheswing waves,
chilled and prayerful in their duties
as graveyard groundskeepers,
escorts to the dead and
gardeners to the remains.