The Glass Island
I would like us to climb into the shell and ride
the waves to where they sleep.
There we would press our fistfuls of sand
into panes and build a clear house
with ocean floor, sky ceiling. This
would save us for a few years.
But I know that as we drift in dreams,
the sand would remember the earth,
crumble from the walls, fill our eyes.
We would wake crying.