distance=privilege

On a beach begorged by seagulls
glows a fish with teats,
a seacow.

She is dead, her body

opens, pours a thick white mess
the froth laps.

She is there, I haven't killed her,
but I cannot fully witness. I'm ashamed
but still resistant. What's to say?
The truth? I love the dead. I do. It's said.
Save their intolerable red.