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Razor-shell wastes, spring-tides' old strewage, crunch; lines of dried, felty seaweed, beiged as sand lead down to waves, froth-busy with the wind. Lean against an old blockhouse to eat lunch.
The iron ribs of pipes within concrete, time, salty-tide and wind conspire to pick; though in doom's gullet stubborn bones might stick, long decades lodged, digestion to complete.
Some shells are much more delicate, it's true, their innards rarely left to elements; grave robbers come with vans and license too - and who knows now exactly what was meant
when lives append their meanings to get by, until all purposes take wing and fly.
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It's a hybrid sonnet. I seem to like to mix the forms a little.
