A human will always see a human
in a conch shell.
Ruffled labia, pink
interior where light moves
into mystery. You know
what I mean. Think now:
have you ever seen
an animal, orchid,
cleaved edge
of a mountain, fingers
of grounded clouds
stroking your office window,
without an apparition:
a face, a memory
of sex, or rising dread,
a deepening awareness
of death. I’ve held
a conch shell and blushed,
thinking of its intimate crawl
across the ocean floor,
its slide across sand.
I don’t live by the ocean.
I’m a creature of land.
I crouch in front
of the refrigerator
and listen for the lapping
of the tide.
