David H. W. Grubb
Crab dying
This is not the way to do it. There is not any way to do it.
Crab death in the cold ruins of rain. Long bang of the sore sand.
To be alive is water, war song, everything sudden and expected
and renewed. Every moment a wedding. The mirrors of esperience
breaking and mending.
This is not the way to do it wounded, skuttled, rammed into the
poor plughole of the fatty dark. Death in a slow skid mark.
The world dries up. I become a shell of myself. Some kid kicks
over my existence. A spade is slicing through my day and age.
I do not live. I do not die, do not live. I do not die. I am
fashioned in a bucket and dropped out before the hot dog.
Twelve million intervals collide. I am collected. I am impossible.
Page(s) 65-66
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