washed up on the shore to dry,
only a tiny salty pocket left.
listening close, a shell of a bell
that sounds like moving, shifting tide
but is only the audience’s audible wish,
and whimsy’s little, and bone of fish
murmured in place of truly said.
marvel, spiral pattern once secreted,
trembling tendril, creature’s feet
that walks away, that is being eaten,
leaves
this polished artist’s aftermath,
unbroken conch,
textbook picture,
fundamental blank
with a perfect edge,
the missing life to nothing wrong.