The lobster is immortal, practically,
and all his life he grows and grows and grows.
Just how big one might get, nobody knows;
his only limit is catastrophe.
If neither caught nor eaten, he'll expand
to twenty, forty, fifty pounds or more;
and one who watched the pilgrims come to shore
might still bestir the deeper ocean's sand.
And maybe, further out, beyond the reach
of lobster trap and cage and fishing net,
silt billows from beneath two ancient claws
the size of sunken ships. And one day yet
he'll roar and rise toward the moon that draws
him, like the tide, to crash upon the beach.