If Mary Anning Only Knew

He sells himself selfishly
down by the sea shore.

And in his embarassment
folds a hand gently yet
to inspire the delicate scent
of her lingering perfume
that has never been near
his own wrinkling hand.

How could it be that
wishing willy-nilly
has made it fugacious
like tide and sea-foam
yet persistent now
as the breaking waves.

The wind of wishing
but for weaknesses
in desperate whispers
of a hunger’s pang
or the siren’s song
by his own invention
and frantic invitation.

She sells sea shells.