Once I looked inside
    the darkness
        of a shell folded like a pastry,
             and there was a fancy face—

or almost a face—
    it turned away
        and frisked up its brawny forearms
             so quickly

against the light
    and my looking in
        I scarcely had time to see it,
            gleaming

under the pure white roof
    of old calcium.
        When I set it down, it hurried
            along the tideline

of the sea,
    which was slashing along as usual,
        shouting and hissing
            toward the future,

turning its back
    with every tide on the past,
        leaving the shore littered
            every morning

with more ornaments of death—
    what a pearly rubble
        from which to choose a house
            like a white flower—
and what a rebellion
    to leap into it
        and hold on,
            connecting everything,

the past to the future—
    which is of course the miracle—
        which is the only argument there is
             against the sea.