There is a night crawler on my bodice,
On everyone’s bodice who’s living.
It sits there taunting the fish,
Who are always snapping at it.
It makes for a strange game of bloody knuckles,
But this effect cannot be reproduced
In space, where there are no fish.
Out there, it is reported in the papers,
The night crawler will suspend
Any activity and simply sleep
Or howl – although it cannot be heard
Because of the weather – and the bodice,
Which is always with everyone,
With wither slightly but will not die.
In fact, back on the surface,
All of humanity and our little plans
And struggles – all of it seems
Cast in a queer light as if one awoke
From a nap and couldn’t remember
Where one is. The night crawler,
Of course, resumes its position
And the fish continue to jump
Even though it is understood
They will never catch a damned thing.