I gather shells and stones
scrounge for bleached bones
driftwood seaweed
anything oddly beached
I guess I’m a shoreline poet
the washed up or ignored
I pick up and put on paper
imagine them in motion
the music their mouths made
their untold stories
the depths of humanity
diving deep into lives
I leave to other poets
though I see the
moon as an orphan
in the sea of the sky
and I’ll swim up to her
on those lonely nights