Our dormant crabs skip
Nor’easters. Whole bushels
play hooky under estuaries.
Hunker us down, Mister
Savory. Follow obelisked
bellies beneath silt and
sediment, only antennae
to be seen with naked eyes.
Docile now, havens of grace.
A far more insipid frenzy
coils above, the predictable
clawing for stillness. Then
icy laments. Impatient detritus
must suspend its unhinged life
cycle. Our invisible antennae
became deadened to the call of
eventual winter—cannot even
pick up snow. Frozen in fury,
in the flames of our untenable
longing for a perpetual spring.