As if the world had fallen, split its skin,
cracked into a delta of fissures. Where once
there was a city, there are hieroglyphs;
fragments of rebar, lazy calligraphy.
Tin roofs slumped and rusting,
a delicate tetanus lace – concrete
fumbling towards the sea – everything
languorous, everything
in barely-perceptible motion.
Just the slow unpicking
of the tide. Just
the scabs of lichen
clotting over lintels,
softening each hearth.
A new skin,
a stubborn tapestry.