The mischief of fleas

The blue faces in death,
the world of sloping
ground.
Air thick
and freely breathed.

Termites,
feet without webs
or fins
Mouths and throats
without gills.

Creatures
small and harsh
that poke and prod
at him.

Sea fleas that burrow
under his skin
with cold cutting teeth
and sharp stings.

suffering comes,
then slowly goes
as pulse stops.
and blood flows

The clear
thrum of death
singing its song
The roar of the ocean
vibrates through the
dome of his skull,

He sleeps, crushed
under the weight of his
own great body,
lungs collapsed
and light faded

Remembers in death
a place of shimmering 
where black mountains
towered from invisible
floors towards blue
fractured sky,

He replays patterns both
ancient and destined.
Feeding and breeding

The dance of the blue
that echoed pole to pole
in flame and ice
Australis to Polaris
dies in the pacific Ocean

His body is heaved high
on the butcher’s gantry
flayed of flesh,
his integument shattered.

Hide ripped by hooks,
fleeced deep.
Red viscera, yellow blubber
and white glistening bone

He feels no more,
only his ghost eyes
sees, through salt.

And he weeps,
at the mischief of fleas

    -Dave Kavanagh

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