Saint Of Souvenirs

A traveler pockets smallest pieces.
Beach glass rhymes in shades of amber,
morning sky or beer-green, all grayed,
tumbled in time. It grates her, too.

By design, she cannot tell them, one
from where the other came, sea-salt
effluvia that curls up some Atlantic
beach, whichever side. Channels run

in and away, sea smoothing memory.
Fingering each bit to guard against
sharp, she learns by Braille the rub
of years and interprets shards

cut off from thirst. She jumbles them
like her old toys, turvy or side by
side, then drops each into a reliquary—
jewels saved by drowning.