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.