She sells seashells

Form a shell with your hand and fan it round your ear.  Listen.
Salt will gather in the hairs of your cheek.  Your feet will give way
beneath the shattered scree of shingle.  Wind skimmed from the tops
and scrapped from the hollow belly of the waves will sing a song
of words without music, crashing on a cochlean shore.  Blood will lap
at your feet in waves and the sun’s fist will clench above the waters
upon which, your spirit, like a raven, will move.

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