The Iron Bones

The brine gnaws at the iron ribs, a slow, deliberate oxidation where diesel hymns once thrummed. Only the gulls hold council now.

Skeletal beams map the tidal shift, an architecture of barnacle and rot. Shadows fracture along the listing deck, tracing the ghosts of frantic labor.

The estuary reclaims its stolen earth, dissolving the monument of steel. These orange bones will flake to silt, swallowed by the apathy of the tide.