Saturday, July 3, 2021

La temporada del cangrejo

The crab walks in and out of the rock,
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.