From the Shell

I was born alone, on the beach,
in a shell. Or so I'd like to think.
In the mist, there is water. On a clear
day, there is water. Sometimes there
are baby sharks feeding at the shore.
Shiny plastic-brown seals whose faces
are never surprised or disrupted. The surly
cries of gulls fighting amongst themselves.
Then, there is the sound of sand rubbing
against itself, the same sound an infant
body makes when emerging from its mother.