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