Down to the beach go down.

Knife edges,
a ridge of stone.
Cutting, ribboned webs –
fronds and fins and flesh (casterneted by sideways scuttle).
Chopping great deaths
to hunks and shards
on our shattered beach.

To much is taken
out of times anguish.
Slaughtered seals,
dismembered dolphins
splayed on the alter
rocks in worship to some
dreadful dollar dream.

Echoing child play,
the squeaking sand of a sundowned walk,
wild horse rides,
the frisking
of a legion of dogs,
a sudden rearing
of waves
at breast or feet
in the glory of rampant surf:
all run cold, red, down
from the ridge of rock,
the knife edge,
at the throat
of our commonality.

What can only rise
with slashed and anguished voices but anger
and more death?
Golfers laugh
like drunken ravens
while it stalks the edges
of their tidy time traps.
Mourning mists cloud
friendships arcs.
Anger brutalizes
chance street meetings.

Small men,
in their self important fancy, count the spoils of desecration.
Money drools shallow fantasies- mansions far from here.
There lives full of things
like them
and their sycophants and dupes,
are bought and sold
like cans of abalone.

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