Skittle along: the boring days,
the oblong days, the hazy days,
the days of nothing and hope.
Of venom and daze,
the scattered laugh,
the opened gate,
the grated nerves,
the hollow ways;
skittle along.

The crab (in its native habitat)
sidles along from side to side
the classic reaction: the ruffling,
the stains, the crinkled edges,
outrage, disenchantment,
the affectation of consternation,
the cavernous hauntings of an entire disappointed nation
the ramblings, the dejection,
and then, at once (or the following day)

On what to reflect, to be exact?
The walk of the crab,
the stripe of the cat?
Are they circular or vertical, nonsensical, convertible?
Or are they all a futile banner banging in the wind with heartless clamor:
ill fed ill wanted children.
We are a nation of poverty robots, disconnected.

Perhaps we make it to the left or right
without a slip, make it to the intersection,
to stop upon a whole new set of points
but, as the moment is in question,
and perpetually out of joint,
and insists on beginning again,
the tale follows and we never arrive.

Only to come again, again,
to the haunting,
the crippling raucous caw, (if crabs could caw,)
of the dream half dreamt, half slept,
as if, in a cocoon of warmth,
I dreamt of ice, breathing in heated circles,
or, freezing and wrapped in thin sheets of night airs,
I dreamt instead of fire.

But can (it) be compared again
to the troublesome and high wire?
Oh, not the circus, not again.
Which leaves me to deliberate:
Why was it Given, if it is not Great?
So must I slip and sidle by
and wonder why while
here is one eye
and look,