White Shells

    Then there was beauty in what clung，

    vertical and multiple against a damp tombstone

    where no one goes， or has gone forever，

    the stone carved in another language

    and the weed-life overgrown.

    We knew they must know movement，

    but they would not move

    while being what they meant to us.

    Where the headstone's windowpane

    meant to protect the crucifix and photograph

    was cracked apart， we saw how

    on its inward， wetter side，

    the infant shells began self-generation in a line

    like vowels strung inside a child's understanding：

    this belongs to this. O perfect succulence

    with which interiors adhere to forms， O open mouths.

    Should we have found the world more often

    clinging to words describing it？

    What would have been the afterlife of that？