Steven F. White
Beach Glass

There are two ways to heaven: one through you
and another that I really don't need.
Beauty is looking for you in the sand,
the pieces of your original light,
your broken and breaking being from waves
that keep surpassing space, condensing time,
in the foam that surges around my toes.
In the blue of I know you have no eyes,
in the white of your nonexistent bones,
in the green of I even loved you green,
in the blood-fossil-absence of your red,
in the brown arms of your earthen abyss,
there is no doubt about your presence,
since I hear you breathe in yellow silence,
taste your golden eclipse through my fingers.