seashells of desire

a splotch of colour on the beach
desire comes to me like seashells -
i run and pick them up
digging with cold hands
in the sand. they dry in the air
glinting iridiscent. they
drip sand in my pockets,
and back home, i shelve them
beside the unfulfilled taj mahal
that never found a light for its marble soul

i wonder what currency it is
that makes me hoard desire.

some day when the sky is gray
i look over them. the patina
has blotted in dull wrinkles;
i wonder on what ridge
on what convoluted surface
lie hidden the many selves
of my yesterdays.

there's still a speck of sand
on it. still it grits on the skin.

when I am gone
the well-wishers will arrive
the moment of death laid bare
a meaning will be constructed
for a life half-lived. and then
one by one these trinkets
will be swept away, crushed underfoot

that which was never dust
will return to dust.