Thirty-four miles off the coast of Cape Fear,
the water is a grey waiting room.
Blurred stilts of the once great tower
stand like the pillars of an abandoned temple.
The kelpish sway of a dawn-coloured sea
is deceptive: this is a place of stasis.
Out of the murk, strange shapes appear,
barely swimming. Elongated blimps
the colour of nails, of the pipes in the seabed.
A herd of sand tiger sharks gathers,
docile as cattle, to enjoy the ebb and flow.
Their scales flash gold, coins at the bottom
of a fountain, leftover ammunition.
Unblinking eyes, like the dead, swivel
across the fog, glimpse rays swooping below.
Suspended in the clash of currents, specimens
in formaldehyde. It is a comfortable purgatory.
— from Juniper Volume 6, Issue 2