a piece of green sea glass

picked up by you, between two strides, without slowing. the sand let go of it as if it had been waiting to be put down. green of the kind once used for cheap wine, milled by the sea until none of the original edge remained.

it weighs about as much as a small coin in the palm — eight, perhaps nine grams. cold longer than you expect after the warmth of the pocket. there is no telling, now, whether it came from a harbour bottle or a passing ship a hundred summers ago.

for now it sits with the other tide-finds beside the lamp. between a shell that is not from here and the small white quartz from the river. it is for nothing. it improves the shelf.