On the beach the shark is dead:
its marble eyes leak jelly, its underbelly,
slashed, bleeds pinkly onto the sand
and flies like copters circle round
reporting on the immense good fortune
of its disaster. Dead as a doornail,
whatever those are; while teenagers
sitting on top of the lighthouse
hock loogies, its fat gray tongue
sticks out a bit from the side, where
sand is stuck to it like a fillet dipped
in flour: another catch of the day,
though bigger than the horseshoe
crab’s bone-shell or ripped pelican;
yes its death takes pride of place on the
beach this evening, staring
back into the waves (who turned
it that way?) as two joggers stand
back a few cautious feet taking pics,
and the tide creeps near and withdraws
not knowing what to say.