Spiking rocks green-fed,
flaking ice-bed so far from
your tepid mouth of rock-pool
with it's tender fringe of algea.

Dead crab in a polystyrene crate,
your eyes are still so impossibly small,
but does your sidecoded disc-brain, ridged,
remember minnow-crushing sundays,
your sisters' hands like stinging orchids
as they were lifted in the swash, their brutish scarlet bonegowns billowing -

Discos on a dead sailor's femur, until it would snap at dusk
from your humpbacked quicksteps.

Dead crab in a polystyrene crate,
for sale on a market stall -
do the eels beside you sometimes writhe questions
through their rubber death film?

Ask you why you didn't try harder
to snap the ropes
un-net the nets?