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Blackness on Sea
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At the end of a long day of foggy
disappearances the waves erase
their fingerprints from the beach.
How does the touch of our sweaty bodies
feel to the Guinness-black sea?
Perhaps it prefers the sleek strokes
of boats, and to be held in the soft
arms of the bay. Surely, it can identify us
as lobster hunters. We hoped to use their claws
to crack the secrets of depths. We failed
to learn the clicking language.
Instead, we boiled them in The Lobster Pot.