A claw twitches
A leg finds no purchase
The mass doesn’t quite writhe
They must be cold, piled on a bed of ice
The sign reads: “Caution!  The crabs WILL bite”
I wonder how long it’s been since they’ve eaten.
I’d like to feel their shells, pick one up; but they bite.
I imagine, instead, waiting to die, chilled, on a pile of brothers.