My bones are stones
Weighted in distances
Scattered from the cliff face mass
No one can collect me
Although parts stand in ornamental jars
On windowsills and shelves
Of those who felt some
Indescribable attachment to the shape
The sea-scaped smoothness
How my fragments
Have become their own.
I was never intended for wholeness-
But for this lonely comfort
Of being settled on a distant shore
Whilst being hoarded in a parent’s house.