Luna visits the dying: house after house,
slowly yielding to tidal hunger,
all roof waver, and shingle warp,
like fish, someone caught and abandoned,
scales curled and lifted by the too hot sun,
smelling of woodrot, maggots and mildew,
windows gone cloudy and wall-eyed.
Doors darken from the waterline up.
One day, a whole section of wall
slides away and gulls hop in
for a once over. Then reeds push
through what steps were left intact.
A narrow dock holds fast to its
sodden pilings until it floats, like
Charon’s raft, off to the underworld.
Luna meditates on gradual decay;
what it leaves behind and what it takes away.