In and out of the spray,
In and out of my eye,
Yet one can't say it changes
With each one of these phases:
It holds the crags of red and brown
And the moving domes of foam
And it waits to be detected
In a tidescape without form.
They say there is a world outside
But I can never see it --
Its shadows are a minor tone,
Shapes hidden between slots.
The crab, though, grows,
As large and undeniable
As stars.
