Drift

The bones of trees drift in with the tide.

Ghastly skeletons foreign to the shore

soaked with the brine of billions.

I walk along the coast picking up bones.

Finding shapes and stories in the 

remnants of forests washed by the waves.

I am a stranger in my city.

My bones baked white in the sun

clatter against the pavement. 

They no longer fit in my body.

So I leave them alone,

Drifting for someone else to find.