I hold a piece
of peach-colored coral
in my hands,
recording its rough
edges, the caverns
of the bone sponge,
the price tag.

The home goods store
is all around me
porous and thin,
the shelves shallow,
the lamps and frames
dim and false, perforated
by bullets of banality.

If only I could push
through this mesh air,
this fishing net
of halogen and bullshit.
Maybe in the next world
I would be holding
living coral, bobbing
in a cool blue ocean,
talking to sea serpents.

I can hear the waves
over the store speakers,
can taste the tropical salt
in between the gray
smudges of today.

Somewhere in the gaps,
there are impossible colors,
like something out of
the funny pages.