i like to keep seashells in my purse, tokens of the ocean, gifts from the womb made of curls and of spirals, seashell reminders of the coast, the edges, the borders so close, the coast and la haute mer and your tip of the toes pointed, body in a crescent moon, curved inward and downward, forward, plunged like a pen, carving eulogies on your chest and on your back, a canvas so blank, under lights so dim, with skin smooth as scales, but without reflection.