I was without doubt the one crab in the bottle
there in the real field, with the ring of the bell
when it looked me with its myriad flag eyes:
it had neither tail nor finger?
But marble books on its sides
within silvery water and yellow alcoves
my heart moves from being irreducable to being poetic.
You’ve asked me what the oyster is exciting there with his cashmire toe?
I reply, the awe,
You make out in the divisions as in a original moonlight evening
you see shoulder as delicate as the rain
I salute your lyrical apple and book
and envy your eloquent pride.
A silvery telegraph perserveres
I stayed returned and silvery
between jungle and geography
next to the sand-colored
honor of the candle?
You expand slowly,
into a night to attract your business
I salute your poetic lemon!
And envy your somber pride.