salt winds
bleach beached wood
unrecognizable tree carcass:
a spruce? a cedar?
stripped now, becoming shell
we walk among the million rocks,
different in size and shape
mold on our shoes
(hoof rot, she calls it)
navigating bird skeletons and wood pulp
eyes on the horizon
those sea-dwellers
whose bread is the wind
left me nothing
but a box of moss light
i opened it
alone
under house of shell and sky.
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