We walk gingerly
through the
wastestrewn muck,
evading all
the forgotten things
the cold lake
spat back up.
A pale beer can,
rusted pipes,
oyster shells
from a buffet night,
a pink conch swirl,
and a coral hunk
from some
long-ago
aquarium.
All naked
and shy
beneath the
bright sun.
After
so many years
asleep in
the deep,
the forgotten things
are warped
by disuse
and seep.
Rock
is what we call
inert
mineral mass.
But rock
becomes stone
when used by
our hands
to cut, grind,
build, or strike.
So it feels
only right
that these
forgotten things
should be given a name
unique to their state-
all purpose
and use dissolved-
their names now held
by the lake.
pm poetry 