A shoe with legs,
a stone
dropped from heaven,
he does his mournful work alone,
he is
the old prospector for golf,
with secret dreams of God-heads and
fish heads.
Until suddenly a cradle fastens round him
and his
is trapped as the U.S.A. sleeps.
Somewhere far off a woman lights a
cigarette;
somewhere far off a car goes over a bridge;
somewhere
far off a bank is held up.
This is the world the lobster knows not
of.
He is the old hunting dog of the sea
who in the morning
will rise from it
and be undrowned
and they will take his
perfect green body
and paint it red.