i stepped into an apartment once,
the basement apartment of a poet;
i could smell it in the cedar,
in the ink and terracotta.
i wanted to stay until she came back;
i wanted to know her, be in her
circle, trace her curves as she
spun her words from the earth.
too small, my friend said—
this apartment is too small.
i left with an ache that
stayed with me for days.
on my way out i touched a green
stone on a shelf by the door:
it may have been sea glass,
it may have been my birth stone,
it may have been my
birth right to say
Art: Sea Glass by Jean Avenidas