Driftwood and coloured glass nursed by seaweed lie tangled in a high-summer tideline. Claiming a spot on the sand, the first of the morning tourists will take home to a life indoors: pieces of glass, the smallest and prettiest of the driftwood, and some seaweed to hang outside to predict the weather. At night, youths with alcohol make a fire of the big driftwood that escaped incarceration, and the last of a great forest ends its life as pyre-sparks released into an endless dome of black sky. Indoors, left in a box, this is what the coloured glass dreams.

Fire Island

Because the I
becomes a we


You’ll find me oxidized and open wide, yet rust resistant

Water as it Relates to Rock

The trick is to hold the breath and the tongue but not in the same hand, and without leaning in too far.