We are souls, poured,
then frozen into the cracks
of coffee shops,
Chiseled free through our scribblings,
thin and cracking confessions.
The girl in the tight, window-case dress
speaks above the folk-style band,
into her cell,
I’m at Kristen’s bad party,
while I listen, content in my jeans by the fire.
Public radio taught me that
trash, once alienated
from recyclables , collides
in a shared space,
for all things used,
despite our discernment.
Our theory of decay translates into
a lengthy process, a journey.
After twenty-five years,
plastic still protects guacamole,
next to legible newspaper that your grandfather recycled,
cigarette burn still distinct.
Yet water still filters itself through rocks and hills,
it moves and purifies.
Do washed-up shells with hollow sound
and scattered shine, gain value
only in your palm,
or upon your toilet tank?
From the shoreline where we dabble and yearn,
choose to skip me,
in this body of mystery.
Return me to where I belong,