She sells seashells by the seashore. The sea takes what it takes, and returns what it can.
Every morning, a woman lays out her shells on a wooden table. That’s where this book starts. Then it follows her out of the stall: into a Paris bakery, past a pigeon who has never paid rent, and to a passport with opinions about where you’re allowed to go.
Poems about what we keep and what we can’t. Some quiet, a few loud, one or two funny.
For anyone who has ever kept a shell just in case.
