Beached seaweed, piled
pasta verde everywhere.
The sand is veined.
A breakwater, bricked
stone loaves, bubble
wrapped in barnacles, lobed.
The clouds wring sunlight out in folds,
and these lurking sea brightnesses
are, maybe, how complexity looks.
Not to say that complexity is
merely mess. But only
that decay and complexity mesh
like the strands and gaps in a net,
each as necessary as each for
scooping the sea.
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