Oh how those silver and black spines
creak up the rolling back,
creased with blackened arteries.
As the back slopes downward
salt hangs in the air,
until the source is found.
Here the spines are not silver
but instead are crumbling brick,
paint flaking in ancient melodies.
Across that salty view
the quiet evaporates as cries tear,
while seagulls swoop and wound.