Sea glass: a single frosted shard to show
for all the planning undone. “Mystic coincidence,”

he says, but that doesn’t create a path—
What are we supposed to follow?

Life is how it is, not how it was… Pale razor
clams line the shore, misfit shells bigger

than feet cut deep when we try to step to land.
We hold salted scars now, rough foliage

not meant for us, need to level out. My aim
gives my poker hands away, they build cement

boxes on the curbs so nothing can hide
behind the grass like crafty Ponce De Leon did.

Cabinet-of-Dr.-Callegari-thin streets wrapped
in arms, perfect arc soul searching, wandering

for years… But just because your center card flips—
Hanged Man—doesn’t mean you’re hanging.


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