Shelley Poem by Robert Dawson

SHELLEY

His arms St. Andrew's cross flat on his chest,
helpless while Leman's beer froth whitecaps clapped
their schooner's antics like a bad audience,
shocked Byron. Living with doubtful women sapped
him, as when Mary cavilled at his nakedness
splashing with Jane, whose husband washed ashore
before him. Long handled tongs, nippers, hooks
resurrect him piecemeal. Gawking children swear,
from these bones, reaching England, men will rise.
Scorched, they troll the shadows of his pyre,
watching us wrap his organs like hot rocks.

"Viareggio. The fleet is coasting dark tonight,
out of bounds. The green glare-cloud of a depth
charge murks the flat black west, where out of sight
salt-choked diesels throb, stall, haul in, scurf
each other's nets unhailed. I scald my feet
to the cuffs in black, snuffing surf, and hear
children scuffing the sand mock words to a song
in a language they can't speak. We're out too late,
ashamed for laws we've not yet made. The fleet's flare
gilds my skin. Waves chop my knees: the boar,
symbol of me, bloodfire to appease me for self wrong."