We buried the ghosts in thick mud,
where the tide dredges up old rubbish,
beyond silted up holes of tools,
to low-lying fog tasting of copper and diesel,
secrets sinking into entitled creeks,
fearing they’ll drift back,
bloating, blinking in the miserable dawn.
Picture AI generated
We sit on the wall, our scarves forgotten,
watching water reclaim what we swore to forget.
Scrap and heart, tangled in kelp,
even wreckage demands to be seen.
Let it float. Let the town witness.
Light a roll-up against the wind,
we’ve got nowhere else to be.