No claim to lay
to this mottled plot
by the municipal jetty
where the wishbones and lockets pile high—
arms, grabbing at sea glass, anything
blunt or blown. Must this rubbing end
in erosion? No matter. I push my cart along as
waves strip the city
to ribbons, the lake
spun out with thirst.
Someone blames the moon. Someone unloads
a truckload of stones onto the shore. We admit
the coast but rarely its (our) cause: just one edge
against another, and all this haggling for a cure.
Here, where no fetish is left
unturned. Where I wash up
men for my haunts and urges
and collect worry stones by
the fistful. I’m a Vietnamese
American peddler, for every
grief deserves a trinket. Say,
how many holes do you need
rings for? Recognize yourself
among my hoops and tassels?