It begins at that harsh peninsula.
The emptiness. The waves move backwards.
Froth becomes curl, becomes pregnant swell
until the rubble starts to rise from the sea.

Jagged swathes of stony flesh, metal wire,
at one point a door. Finally, it comes,
that great turning beacon, leaking water
from its lantern hole, light too heavy to beam.

At the top of the cliff, it reassembles
itself into what it thinks it is, into the reason
it was destroyed. The sea does not enjoy 
being denied its hunger for shipwreck.
The beacon begins turning, light reappears,
the keeper runs backwards into its cavernous husk.