a seashell


What might enshrine
geology’s raw nerve
or a French curve
spiralling through the line


edging this broken shape,
this porous, paid-for lime,
endowed the rugged climb
down the stone landscape


into a present marked
by sediment’s raw fear,
laid down year by year,
each grain a miniature ark.


Curved as a coracle,
the fossil shell stood out
amid the gravel rout
like the bone of an oracle,


waiting for the words
to make the future sense
as Romans at some expense
did from the livers of birds.


Do two lovers owe
the strangers they were at the start
more than their faltering hearts?
The past would say no.

A Message from the Editors

Your donation sustains our efforts to inspire joyous rediscoveries.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 19 Number 9, on page 30
Copyright © 2024 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2001/5/the-devils-toenail