Shelley on the Beach

Shelley washes up once or twice a year on the beach at the end of my street. And I still feel lucky to find him--my dear Bysshe, all tangled in burgundy seaweed on the sloping shore. And not the real one, mind you, not the one they dragged rotten from the Italian surf, ten days dead, bloated, faceless half eaten by sea life, the cartilage of the nose rising from the sodden flesh, the ragged eye sockets blooming with tiny crabs and bugs. . .