All gristle and gape
a hundred dogfish lie dead on the beach
gulls dragging them seaward
where the boats fished all night
lifted their outriggers
and emptied their nets
tossing the trashfish over the side
in moonlight
The edge of the sea
is no place for the past
in the present's mad churn
in the thunder of renewal
death and life have the same smell
dogfish washed up in the dark
in moonlight
The edge of the sea
is no place for the past
in the present's mad churn
in the thunder of renewal
death and life have the same smell
dogfish washed up in the dark
The Geminids slashing above them
the Dipper on its handle over Cornwall
or some other cliff-shored land
on the far side of the sea
where the stars rise out of Eurasia
and people stand in wonder
near the end of their night
trapped with their grief in their sanity.
