Weeds hang in blue-green seas,
pirated by the waves as they roll in,
or they flap against hanging masks
in brisk, salty air.
Pieces of broken shell
stick to clammy feet as tides
reach and grasp at grains,
tugging from the shore
to be relinquished once more
by shacks selling fresh crab
or sticky-sweet rock,
emblazoned as the seafront.
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