• It could very well be the middle of the desert
    Bleached bones blindly, unblinkingly gape
    As the choppy sour-tasting wind catches up
    Bits of dried seaweed, brown grasses
    But mostly sand
    And picks them up, up
    Into an angry rage
    Which settles as if nothing happened
    The people on the island are gone
    Their camps, little awkward trailers on stilts
    Have been carried away into the sea
    There is a saltwater pond in the middle of the island
    Not very deep-
    More a glorified puddle than anything else
    And the little piscine sentries dart in shock
    That someone would be out in the barrens
    Surrounding their little oasis of life
    But for the ruins themselves,
    This is the proudest they've been in a hundred years.
    It stands alone, singular among the flat island desert
    The litter and graffiti washed away and carried to sea
    The cacti and grasses gone
    The earth salted
    With no company but the little fish in its heart
    It stand alone
    Guarding its charges in their island of life in the barrens
    From its place in the island barrens, surrounded by an ocean of life.