Fortune Selling Poem by Matthew Christopher

A man who made a fortune selling something he hates died last night.

The abyss that once threatened our world is now limited
to a small mouth with room enough for only its teeth and a tied tongue.

Soon, it will choke too from the tide that rolls in,
it will disappear in the wet sand.

When the tide goes down it will take with it the man's coffin,
it will pull it far away
and leave behind a clean beach with a few shells
and one piece of polished glass.