You almost step on it: cartilage laced

with morning silver. Cuttlefish litter

the shoreline, and now you see it—

crushed-bone sand was always around

you. Storm-clouds are dispersing

with stolen appetite. Through sea-fog

you squint to find finality the tide has

not carried in; the sand holds only you

and crumbled cartilage awaiting

your unwary footfall. Skeletal compulsion

compels your hollow frame

forward, and you fill your pockets. Cuttlebone

chimes clink-clink. When you can no longer

stand the sound, bury habit with the bone-shards.

The fruit trees will bloom twice as bright.