I never know under which shell the pea it hidden, as if the pea has a life of its own, doing its best to avoid me.
I used to watch hermit crabs crawl from one shell to other
in a seaside cage along the Point Pleasant boardwalk, less the sci-fi mothers
with its multiple legs than something wounded or scared, seeking newer, safter
loggings that are neither new or safe, always a place previously occupied by
some other entity that fled for some other reason of its own, perhaps, the pea feels
the same fear and fleas one shell for another hoping to find where it can
remain undiscovered, knowing it can’t possibly stay hidden, as wounded and
scared at the hermit crab that over time runs out of shells in which to hide
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