The concrete
never lies. There were once hotels
And people here, caught up in
these vines.
The tell-tale posts for summer docks
Are not
disguised enough by seaweed
To free themselves from the past.
Yet we
know
Only that these people had the same presumed
Hungers
and proclivities we have too,
Albeit with woolier bathing
suits
And more ridiculous hats. It was the style
To claim
this isle for God and society
But few now take an interest in
dredging
Through stones for some shards of ceramic
Softened
by rain into something different.
The seagulls give birth here, and spread their bones
In far less
prudish display than our ghosts.
They say there were storms,
kitchens lost to flames,
But those were merely stories we’d
required
To justify the ruins, bereft of myth
And usable
history, some crags,
Some grass, a dreary beach, some sumac
trees …
The ladies pose in dinghies for eternity,
The men
still drink gin rickeys to this day,
In a flash of thunder,
buckets of rain.
If only I could join them, at least in
A
dream, but there’s so little left of them
— No laughter, no
ribbons, no ties — ah but
There’s less of me, so it’s
somehow enough!
