In The Lobster Tank || Alex MacConochie

Or are they straining to be chosen?

It’s one day possible to ask.

Piling slowly over each other’s rust


Green skeletons, uncertain

Eyes and heavy claws that open

Useless against one wall and close

Probing shells of living things


Below.  This is no endorsement.

The question like the pity comes unasked,

Both as clear and unyielding as glass


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