Nostalgia Takes Its Form In Rotten Wood
                             Siobhan Kelly

it has been so
for very long now:
cypress roots will gnarl,
crack their brother
wooden planks
as broken bones—
this is true.
houses bend for nature
just as moss will fall;
never the end.
but the yellow water
has left its lines
up in the air, above
your finger’s reach,
and all is lost from sight.
into a dead wave,
the boats have rusted
and your feet are passing
beneath, rocking in tin
and flotsam
cut from the same fabric
as the ashes of the gone.
and again, it is so:
the waste of the waters
is their field,
lapping at the horde
of broken bones, 
voices, everything collapsed—
this is true.
we must reap from what our hands
can grasp below.
not the end.
no symbol, either.
just the tide rising, falling.