Girilan

This dozen amused tourists surround
a dead dragon on the sand.

Its last ferocity
is the stench that armours each ending.
Already delicate fins are trimmed to lace by the scission of crabs.
Beneath a corona of flies spirit is urged to shuck flesh.

Harp of teeth
reach out to voice.

A roadmap of spine leads towards the spume.
Hygienically cleansed
under flash–bulb asepticism.

Any shift in tide will send this
crashing to the tale.
There is history,
but it won’t tell.

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