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where stillness seems a risk,
surf gnashing at the dunes,
the wine-dark sea a threat
to swallow everything rooted or built,
your faith in engineering wanes,
and you're happy to hose off the salt
and drive back into your staid hills
far from the violent margins of renewal
toward the peace and relative comfort
of gradual endings,
better attuned, if you're lucky,
to your own slow fade.
