I will be the shipwreck if you will be the beachcomber
who, bewildered, would pick up the wood
blown onto the beach
and see gemstones and gold coins
and bottles of dried exotic herbs
and place them in your pocket,
unsure of their names but understanding their value
as "precious" or "special"
as I sit, shipwrecked, under the surface
spilling my glut into open water
several miles out.
Every day you collect the wood
from my shipwreck,
placing the plank fragments the wire basket
in the crook of your arm and stacking
only as much as you can carry in one trip
only as much as you need for a night.
The treasures you find find their way
onto your windowsill, peering out at the seafoam
or peering in at you as you peer through the gem
translucence, seeing yourself reflected in the facets.
You burn the wood
in your wood burning stove
and you curl around the fire you make
with your afghan around you at night.
Fish populate me.
