It was something else entirely. It was not the ripped yellow t-shirt I pulled from between the boulders Where the lake met Chicago. It was not the penny or the wasted Gull feather. Nor was it the childβs shoe That no longer flickered as she ran. It was not the rusted corkscrew that Faintly read Jackson Hole, Wyoming, By the gold and chipped cowboy Tall in the saddle, Nor the green and brown shards Of empty glass, nor the used And smoothed shells of mollusks. It was not the bits of blottered pages Whose inks no longer spoke of hands But water and dissolution. It was not the lensless knock-off Raybanβs - severed at the temple. No, It was something else entirely, There, hidden in the rocks, Where the water beats upon us.