Across the abyssal plain,
in waters weighted with the entire
ocean
and as utterly black as night can be,
lit only by the
thrashing sparking flaring
of creatures bizarre by any notion
of
ourselves, the lubberly kind…
Across these heavy deeps
in
measured tread of little feet crustacean,
they march, determined
in their quest
with thoughts in mind, if there is any thinking,
of
dancing fandangos in slow motion
with lady lobsters, fair and
fine…
Across the rippling sands
the lobsters march in
single-file profusion
parading to their dancing grounds
driven
by intent of reproduction
with no digression or confusion
Miles
of lobster swains divine…
