Drift Line

Issue 47 • Spring 2023 • Poetry

Lately,      I    only

want          partial

pieces.

1. Worm-bored ribs from a

bittersweet. 2. The navel

twist, alone, of a moon snail.

3. Dramatic ruffle, three

thrills, from a huge gray

oyster.

Dulled silver underneath.

It isn’t conscious,

decisions in

beachcombing being

usually based in entire

interior

affinities for shape, color,

rarity, or strangeness,

meaning I make them

and seldom define a

method,

but nevertheless I end

my walk—the prior

half-hour misted,

whole, and

inaccessible to me,

as good walks in such flow

should be—and open my

hand, and not a single item

is sound. 4. Stained-glass

sliver

of a fulgur whelk’s fleshlike inner

pink. 5. Two riddled triangles in

strips of ocher on white. The

parts

make me think first of

O’Keeffe (not the shell

paintings, but her

bones): the pelvis-

tousles and sockets

laden by sky that

seem

in some lights—by

crop and density—

abstract, but most

often strike me as

extravagantly

natural.

This is the way we find

things. 6. Tip of a pen shell,

opaque but iridescent. Maybe

this is why I like the pieces

now, even as it marks me

an entirely different person

than the child I was, on the

same stretch of Atlantic

beach,

who cared exclusively for

intact butterfly shells (my

term for coquina) and

undamaged scallops, razor

clams, baby’s ears,

and teeth; distinct, too, from

the woman I’ve seen this week:

summer neighbor with yellow

sifter

garish against her

sensible straw hat and

black suit, who stands

ankle-deep in the water

to reach

the shingle and bends,

inspects, selects, bends

again for a perfect shell that

hasn’t yet been pushed to

visible sand. Now look what

I’ve got—

so many resemble potsherds,

curves broken from vessels,

sewn or woven covers, and

handwriting

(7. Tunnels and punctures sorted

like cuneiform on one saltwhite

square) that it appears impossible

I’m the first person to touch.

8. Slide of another pen. Thin as moth.

See, right through it, water

polished, working like nothing.

I’m mistaken. Like itself.

Issue 53 • Spring 2026

Fiction

Poetry

Fiction

Poetry