Peter's poem to Norbert

Peter Fruchter

A crab shell
discarded lies of flesh
spills in and out of the ocean
or maybe, merely, only water runs in and out of it.

The flesh that once lived
has a new abode
having vacated the shell
in favour of memories.
only memories in the shell now.

The shell does not know
where the sea,
running in and out of its memories
and the sea does not know either;
but the sea does not end
it never ends, it is forever

how can it end at the place it runs
in and out
waving its rhythm like the appendages of a crab
rhyming its waves like the tides.

and a new crab
young and foolish
comes into the discarded shell
and ambulates farther up the shore
and makes that oceanic space
that space that belonged only to the ocean
its own.

nothing special about this new shell
that now crawls upon the shore,
except for this decision to move house
a decision the ocean could not have made.

and now,
the crab crawls about
wondering where to go next
and what other decisions it can make
for the simple pleasure of doing
that which the ocean can not...
or maybe it's hungry.

Same thing, really.

Peter Fruchter

Carolyn's Diary
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