The Beach Where All Babies Are Born

We mailed ourselves the moonstones home.Ten pounds of them, a private beachThat cuts and cuts and cuts the feet.Where all babies are born, but not any of mine. Who strews the gifts, who distributesThem, who carries them, what mailman.The stones were the way ToveJansson drew them. Empty circles,Somehow heavy. Shingle, beautifulMurmurous word. I think oftenOf […]