eliot fish-stars

On the beach, with the cold grain sand
moonwet on our shins and shift soft under
our feet, Eliot-- dreaming of something frozen,
something pale-- fish-stars, layered flesh
all pink on the grey sand.

The revolution heroes died last night, all of them
up to their necks in fist-deep mud while the sky
drizzled bullets, tea leaves, machiavellian principles
and they died, they died, they died.

Oh Lurching People! by the sea you drag
moral shackles and immoral wounds, flayed open
where the salt water stings. But by the sea I wait
with Eliot, for a crowd of jellyfish-coloured souls,
Marco Polo and E.B. White.