Deck

Sitting on the deck of this floating restaurant, and jingling change in my pockets, instead of doing what I see myself wanting to do, which is to stand at the bow, and clamp the hand-rail with these hands I imagine as great red claws-I have mistaken Lobster for enlightenment on more than one occasion-the way the lobster might want to free itself from the crate with its claw that doesn’t know anything about hope, never mind clamping onto it, and with its tiny brain, not know enough about wanting to live, to stay away from the wooden nothing it doesn’t know it will imprison itself in, for a different and more comfortable view of the blue thing we call “ocean.” I still think one does not need words in order to communicate pleasure and pain, but I do think one needs language.

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