There are days when life is grand,
Sold as fresh as morning fish
Still scented with briny ocean dew,
Eyes clear, flesh firm, glistening
Pink hues held together by
Indigo hued lines in unison.
Days like these we hold court,
Expounding on absurdities of love,
Downing crisp Semillon,
Tiny silver anchovies au gratin,
Cold oysters flush with seawater,
And our own sense of pomposity.
These days the blue waves tipple
Of silver light, rising towards
A gray horizon as if to vanquish,
Only to fall in pieces, shattering
Against a stoic audience of sandy
Beach infested with vile bodies.
Here we silently feign
Indifference to harder truths,
Lighting our souls instead with song,
Even as the net of our fears
Gathers, rising as a great
Veil,inexorably drawing its prey,
Whose shimmering words crowd
Slowly inward until all are one
Cry, and no single listener remain.
They fall as water from the net,
Collecting among the living sea
Even as we are drawn gasping
From its dark bosom,
Gulls darting opportunisticallly
Towards our squeezed flesh,
And at last we know of
Something, something like
Dying, seeping into last breaths.