There is a wharf I like to walk
where the pieces of broken bottles
break upon the shore until
their edges are smoothed and they
become lovely, polished sea glass
that accumulates in the pockets of
vacationers perusing beaches.
I never collect these shiny baubles
because I have always felt that
the metaphor would suggest
that we, the broken and jagged
just need to be worn down until
someone finds us safe enough
to add to their collection on shelves.
I would prefer to stay in the ocean.