The beach is a zillion sandgrains,
At the top, where the cliffs might tumble down,
there’s trash and treasure dumped by the tide;
this perfect-sculpted brittle carapace,
those countless plastic scraps
that a man grabs with a plastic litter-picker
to put in plastic sacks,
Sisyphus in a high-vis jacket.
What can I do but wish him well,
though he might as well try to bail out the sea
with scoop after scoop of this crabshell.