There is a little beach
on the island of Malta, where
all the Mediterranean sea-glass
washes ashore, or shall we say
is dropped, unnoticed, from the pockets of waves
who run away, laughing like children, having never
learned to weep over lost treasures.
These are the water's marbles, knots of string,
lint-crusted hard candies left
all along the shore, ripe for discovery.
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