The Graveyard Of The Sharks
Michael Wurster
The incomprehensible world behind his eyes.
Names swallowed by the cold,
swallowed by the corpse's fresh decay.
The heron would lead us out,
but the clots of bodies
are unequivocal in the final frantic vision.
Death searches,probes the heart.
The names of the dead
are exchanged like scrip,tired money
like old ships at sea.
Our hair grows gradually towards the light.
Poem Courtesy of
"Only the sea keeps:
Poetry of the
Tsunami"
Pictures:
HumanityAshore
Michael Wurster lives in Pittsburgh,PA,with his two Siamese
cats,Clea and Hawthorne.He teaches poetry and poetry writing at
Pittsburgh Center for the Arts.
