Poetry: From the July/August 2007 issue | See all poetry
Crab and the Rag
When the man dropped his shirt
as he was leaving the beach with girl and beer,
he couldn’t have imagined what I would do
with this rag. Little house, soft labyrinth.
Tent, cloud monkey. Playing card
without number, sign, or face—
played on the table of my beach,
because he who makes of what he finds
dreamt belonging becomes the sole owner,
the one who sets traps for rags.
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