Shell Island is not an island
and there are not many shells
to be found upon the beach men made
to keep a hotel from falling into the ocean.
But you can usually find a bird’s wing
or beer cans, the occasional jellyfish
drying out on the sand.

This shore is unsure of survival,
the Atlantic creeps in, threatens
to undo the work of many.

If the resort ever falls into the ocean
it will be such a strange gift
for the creatures below.
Rooms buried under the waves,
providing new spaces to get lost in.

I found a message in a bottle
while strolling along the spit of sand
that is now a bird sanctuary.
It was winter. I plucked the bottle from the cold,
popped off its lid and pulled out
a blank page, soggy and yellowed,
its ink faded, revealing nothing.