There was once a poem so long that it stretched from the heart of the interior all the way to the coast. It was an important work, an epic that spun histories of an ancient and mystical people. But being a poem, it had no cash for a fare home, so took up living on some rocks beyond a breakwater. It survived on kelp and mackerel, and shaved with the sharp edge of oyster shells. When asked why it didn't sort its life out, the poem used to shout that it was complete as soon as it was born, what else was there that it needed to be? As with all things that cannot change, people soon lost interest in the poem, and the world continued to turn. Every now and again skylarking kids or drunk adults would come to throw rocks at it. Lonely as an old grey bone, the poem would curl up among the tide pools in the night, breaking itself with riddles, trying to understand why saltwater didn't cure everything, as promised.