Plague Of Dead Sharks

A poem by Alan Dugan

Who knows whether the sea heals or corrodes?

The wading, wintered pack-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.

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