The Lobsters, a ghazal

They drag themselves on ocean floor

From currents roused in tides ashore.

 

Crustaceans have no need for hell,

Immortal as the tides ashore.

 

The lobstermen with skin like wood

Of ships do toil in tides ashore.

 

They warm their hands from cigarettes

The smoke—the fog of tides; ashore

 

The tourists burgeoning do feast

With sunburnt jowls by tides ashore

 

And saunter, drunk in scarlet dusk

To scuttle past the tides ashore.

 

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