I seek it along the shore.
It jingles brightly in my pocket.
I store it in a jar on the shelf
where it glows
like a light from behind a closed curtain.
I taste it on my morning toast,
glimpse its flicker past the window pane,
listen to its laughter in the rain,
drink its naked musk
through the open doorway at nightfall.
When I brush my teeth with it
you complain that my smile
keeps you awake.
So I stow it in a chest full of stones,
bones, leaves, sleeves, arachnid webs,
threads of decay, day-old bread
and sunlight ebbing away.
Cupped in my empty palm it shimmers
like a psalm of affinity.