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Sometimes I think what it would be like to throw away once-treasures on the tide. But the tide always returns. Who can tell if it wouldn’t be drawn back, like a magnet? I’ve tracked a shard of blue plate for weeks. It moved on a few yards now, past the fern-filled hollow of the water spirits. The tide has moved it onward. Only crabs move where they wish, scuttling past from where I watch on the wall above. Below, the low shore is freckled with tiny snails. I find a wheel of sand, rubbery as if made by man. Its maker drills holes in the shells. Poisons the flesh. Sucks out the jelly guts. In a lukewarm crook of stone, barnacles reach feathered toes out like curved claws to snag what we cannot see. Lady’s slippers cling like the Gemini to an old oyster. An old man scolds a trespasser. Later she laughs like the gull as she skims over his submerged beach in her kayak. In the autumn she reaches out her hand to the salmon, so near shore. With a wild splash, the salmon darts away to deeper waters. I am left with the spiders hiding in my craft. Just me and my loathings.

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