There's one last request which I'll get over with now,
and it's called the Plague of Dead Sharks.
And I'll recite two new poems after that, which
I wrote since I'm similar--
on a similar theme.
This is called a Plague of Dead Sharks.
Who knows whether the sea heals or corrodes?
The wading, wintered packed-beasts of the feet
slough off, in spring, the dead rind of the shoes' leather
detention, the big toe's yellow horn
shines with a natural polish, and the whole person
seems to profit.
The opposite appears when dead sharks wash up
along the beach for no known reason.
What is more built for winning than the swept-back teeth,
water-finished fins, and pure bad eyes
these old, efficient forms of appetite are dressed in?
Yet it looks as if the sea digested
what it wished of them with viral ease and threw up what
was left to stink and dry.
If this shows how the sea approaches life
in its propensity to feed as animal entire,
then sharks are comforts, feet are terrified,
but they vacation in the mystery and why not?
Who knows whether the sea heals or corrodes?
What the sun burns up of it, the moon puts back.