Went seashell hunting this morning. Seashells really capture my imagination,. Each one has likely been home to a critter, which became dinner to another. The shells have been tumbled unknown miles, smoothed, broken, and bored through by the sand and sea. Eroded.

In looking for seashell poems, I found this one. 

I’d not read it or anything by this poet before, but I will seek out more of Marin Sorescu now. I didn’t get the word play until after I read the whole thing: sea shell written as two words, shell as in outer casing. So Sorescu imagines that he has hidden some portion of himself in a shell and must try to find it again. “filtering the sea through my fingers” does feel like trying to find myself, at least metaphorically and I enjoy this imagining of that as more literal.

we could be two bees sleeping in a flower together