Slate
washes ashore
with the patina
of old maps of Michigan.
Gulls scream in formation
at the promise of discarded crusts of bread
and fear of oncoming thunder.
It’s late July,
and mist rises,
vaporizing phantom ships in the distance,
veiled,
primordial,
like they’ve been keeping watch
on the shoreline since Moses.
They disappear now
into the space
where land, air, and water meet.
Weather swallowing boats
at the end of the world.