Abalone
A perfect ashtray,
or maybe a bowl for stray
buttons, bobby pins, hobbies,
ticket stubs, dice, the rubber
band removed absently
from yesterday's paper:
Shell that forgot
it was ever near the sea -
held to an ear, the sound
of waves so distantly
echoed, it must have been bought
instead of found;
and in other ways mute:
Three holes invite fingers
to cover them, as though
to prepare the note
of an ocarina with no
place to blow. In December,
nails clipped into it
like a sky full of crows,
it could be one of those
rare days in the teens
when the sunset
turns from pink to green:
The abalone rocks
in one's hand - iridescent
omen of lilacs,
slag of auroral fire,
TV screen gone haywire
with zigzags: The blues went
out of the picture; one fears
the problem's not in one's set,
wonders what broadcast
will be seen - better yet,
from where - when at last
the signal clears.