the river at stretch reaches
out for the coast and the basins –  
Clontarf – like a hand for a glass  
on a table. and in water  
where fresh meets  
the salt the crabs gather;
move inland on instinct, upriver
toward algae and a garbage
strewn muck – a slow  
tick of chitinous watch
gears, counting seconds  
to low tide and back. seagulls drop  
out of the air like men's hands
reaching for coins on  
a table. these crabshells;
gold circles, red copperish
discs. you walk into town from down  
smithfield; the crunch under foot-
fall all crabshells and legs,  
or sometimes dead  
leaves if it's autumn
or autumn's environs.  
a man stands on a corner  
in all seasons anyway;
in weather with a hand
and a cup reaching out,
looking like a seagull,  
or a riverbed crawling  
with crabs, or a shell on the pavement.