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17 Poison Crab That bunch of corroded keys dropped in your lap, now hangs deadweight on your days. In morphine sleep you dream by the bottle-torch moonlight of village children, owners of the roads in crab season. Crack backs underfoot sever limb from limb snap those antenna eyes scoop articulated parts into long bags hauled home to boiling pot. They stiffen before yielding up flake-flesh to scourge of hot pepper, bow broad forehead to strike-down of hammer. But always there are ones that bite back and do not let go, till thunder roll. ...

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