By the time I get there, cubism has set in. A thousand faces circle the cadaver. Mist fizzles into rain. The organs splayed out in the drift sizzle like the sound of crackling bacon. Each fleck of water slices at the desiccated blood.
Thousands flock to thrill at absence.
There s still enough to feel the loss. A river of baleen. A disembodied fluke. Two days on, the ebb of human flotsam has washed clean. And when the three of us arrive, everyone and thing are gone.