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Horseshoe Crab |
© Beth Roberts | The percussive God wears itself out on a wall, where the moon shows up blue in this king, pulling us from our red show. Found on a beach, scraping in the tide. Years, hundreds of thousands it hummed to ocean bottoms, settling the nadir of its rising rings. Spit out on sand, it blackened to an old tooth. But to be one-limbed and round, perfectly defunct intact within a circumference. Surely the soul wouldn't bother to go, but slowly shrink to the innermost concentric circle of the body the less alive it became, spectacle vehicle, already in place. To be priceless . . . a wheel, ring, pursed lip or what is it the century requires. |