a supermoon broaches
the cape at its black throat.
we shovel sand into glad bags
with crustacean-shaped spades
glancing sidereal, a chain gang
with necks manacled and craned.
waves of opening/closing hands
beckon from low tide’s terrace.
we envisage the hour on the sand
before bodies after bodies
and every shuttle is a challenger
to the champion death.
I can’t help thinking
cancer would’ve been a hammer
rather than a metaphor
of the order decapoda had Hera
had Hercules committed
like us, the horizon rematerialises
in T-minus 3, 2, 1 …
her dark barge has inched a click
and in my heart there’s always a ship
somewhere on the ocean’s floor
where the first modern crab
caught itself growing legs.