A small clatter made by shells as the lake laps at my feet, shuffles the nacreous or bone-white calling cards left by recently departed mollusks. Piled on the mud flat like beggars’ cupped palms, or cast-offs from a shoreline three-card monte grift; all their soft former residents long gone and literally dis-mantled. What wonders they were: an inner mantle, secret skins secreting shields for their tendernesses; those pilgrims’ markers sheltering them as they grew fat. It seems simpler to be housed safe in flesh alone; not restlessly tossing under cloudy skies, shedding the artifacts that add drag to my wandering.
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