The Ocean is a Cul-de-sac

—after Chad Foret

So we place blue crabs in
the space our teeth used to
occupy. Horizon how definition
looks through a sextant.

We’ll throw rope like a wave,
riding sweat and sunshine.
Consider this occupation void,
nothing seems standard fare

for a diving bell lodged overhead,
trusty drill in a bag, darkness
welcoming our descent. You’ve got
to torch the depths in a downwind

sort of way, beach calling
to the canines, nice psychotics
for the scrounge. Consider dog
choreography in Casablanca

prism, locket ochre for the backwash
and blessing way. After
gun ballets, how can the horizon
feed us flies and waffle froth?

So we occupy the space our shell
used to be, the sunny knolls
of sleepy pincers. We’ll throw
our voices from a lighthouse

whose hunger strobes shore.
Underwater language
differs by gill, dorsal. Company
remains the same as topside:

swim with schoolmates or be
chewed lonely in ransacking
jaws. Octopuses once had eight
arms, but adapted two into

legs. At least experts claim
previous cephalopod
authorities incorrect. Since
no one is trustworthy

you hone a bed of rocks
and sand, shell and bone,
sleeping never more
delightful than ghosting

centuries-old wreckage.
To be neighborly, clams
utter nothing, infauna
ignoring the busy

swimming hole, the hazelnut
spread laced with ketamine.
Every reef is a lawn and comes
with a coroner, the altars

saturated, down to doublewide.
One shouldn’t have
to pressure-wash their ticket
to godhood, but there is

basking to be done, berry
fields to unblue. In the 80s,
you could flotsam around
with blood down your jaw

until a cabbie stopped or silverware
got excited. Anglers
start another cigarette disco.
Down here, you have to

be huge and half invisible
to survey tentacles. Algae
blooms equalize—breath
a fight to flesh, fish alike.