It's just a little spit of bay
a few fathoms from my house
populated by derelicts
rotting on their moorings.
Or the channel that runs between
our dock and Carrot Island
where we take students to watch whelks
at low tide, by moonlight.
The beach by Ironsteamer Pier
where children dig for sand crabs
while I sit watching the tide fall
in the August sun.
It's the braying banker horses
where Diamond City once stood
now lost to the enduring dunes
a legend, forgotten.
And it's the old menhaden plant
abandoned on its island
as skiffs and leisure boats steam by
empty and unaware.
It's the fish house at the end of Front Street
the old piling we used to climb
shrimp boats, waiting for their captains
marshes, mud flats, sand.
It's a thousand tiny oceans
empty, waiting to be filled.