Lessons in Sea Glass

This week, I gave our group the assignment of writing a poem in tweets.  I read Jennifer Egan's incredible story she wrote for the New Yorker awhile back where she wrote in segements of 140 characters or less and the whole thing was published via tweets that were posted a few minutes apart.  I've been haunted by the form eversince.  Last week, I went to a reading at Sonoma State Univeristy where I got to hear Lyn Hejinian and Paul Hoover discuss their concepts of Postmodern poetry.  It was an incredible talk, but one idea I walked away with was Paul Hoover's suggestion to write a poem via tweets much like the Jennifer Egan story.  Here is my attempt of a draft of a poem written in this form.

Lessons in Sea Glass

The field I stood next to was unsteady.  Covered in dirt and a patchwork of grass.  The man in a track suit kept spray painting lines to find order. 

Mornings were fogged in.  I couldn’t smell the salt in the air but knew the cool sea churned the cliffs nearby.

The town was mappable as if it had just arisen from the very sea still dripping.  I talked the pavement down into a path.

On the second day, the fog held its breath and we found a sea cliff and beneath it the carnage of tumbled sea glass.

It was too fogged to see through.  Signs were posted up and down the beach:  Collecting Sea Glass Prohibited.

I taught a lesson on the word Prohibited before I let go of his small hand.  Before he wove his body between every rock and crevice the sea had left.

Hours later, when we returned to the field we could no longer see the field, or the streets.  It was as if the city had once again disappeared into the sea.

I felt the weight of his hand but couldn’t be sure he was the same boy.  His hand was covered in callouses and scars.

We sat at the edge of what we perceived to be the field.  The man in the track suit had given up on lines the color of clouds (no one could see the difference).

The boy tumbling like sea glass.

When the fogged cleared, we were in another place.  The man with the tracksuit threw up his hands, so we left the field again to find what had emerged.

And we walked it down.  Foot by unsteady foot.  Salt and peppered pavement freckled with gum, sparkling like sea glass.

Until the hand I held became his hand again.