This Sea, Where I Feel At Home

Washed, striped, like a mackerel back,

Dorsal-finned dunes roll under

The sky,

Which is Sea.

 

The crab shakes a fist

Wishing the sun out of the water,

And then, when he fails,

Wriggling into

Invisibility.

 

He longs for a top hat, but that would compromise his disguise.

 

Poor man.

He was my next-door- neighbour,

Until he was deported to Land.

I believe he met a wife (who was asphalt- bound)

But they both ended up

In a bowl

On their backs.

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