a conch falls  from your mouth  and lands upon a telephone book  from 1996, the year of our lord and a girl or guy sits quietly in the corner watching or not watching the scene unfold, smoking clove cigarettes all the while a golden scarab lands at the open window with a note taped to its back you take the paper and realize  it’s no note at all it’s a photograph a picture of you at the beach in 1996, a conch shell in your hands