The one farthest out to sea
his life’s at stake and ugly
death is staring him in the face
but he brings none of them back
and no memory of the journey
on the low shelving sand
where they fall asleep
men like us perhaps
each a law to himself
a savage
deaf to justice
borne along by deadly winds
and each vomiting
chunks of human flesh
holding on singing until dawn
nobody’s killing me now.
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