The endless shore

When I stand on Anxiety’s endless shore

I can see no one but those fisher-birds,

sitting on the water like puffed-up princes,

picking the eyes out of the floating dead.

 

The hump of land I stand on is as round as a whale’s back,

rising from the soapy depths. Oil and sand twist and curl beneath my feet;

messages in a language I don’t know, to people I can’t see.

Carcasses flop in on the tide, their pink bellies exposed,

I kick them back in: Take the death away from me.

 

I wear fury about my shoulders and wrap myself

in it’s angry warmth; it will hold me in against the breeze.

But the winds of this shore are too strong for me;

my fury buffets like a sail, blowing me no where.

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8 thoughts on “The endless shore

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