It was smooth and worn where the persistent fingers of the ocean
worried perfect grooves in its surface

that your thumbs might have a place to rest and rub.
When I saw it on the wet sand, just as the foam rolled back,

I thought it was crushed bone, or the fin of a fish, and I
remembered your large hands,

how you cast them about when something useful is being said.
In the letter I tell you mourning doves

call Hoo, Hoo – Hoo from my tamarind tree,
the black bands at the back of their necks

open and close as the birds meet
the curiosities of the world,

their song a lament
for giving too much to what’s ineffable,

and pulls us toward an internal edge.
When the letter came back, marked for insufficient postage

I went out for more stamps
and believe it or not, saw a woman get hit by a car.

Her body lifted up and flew over the traffic,
landing almost at my feet.

Her sturdy red leather clogs
remaining in the middle of the street.