Out of love we fall ten times a day,
out of the marrow, out of luck,
out back into distractions and joys we rip off from prey,

like yanking a claw off a lobster,
then putting it and the tail and the little motile feet
back down on the plate

and looking up from it with the mug of a mobster—
big baby boy with his bib tied on—
just before the spray of bullets

sends the waiters and busboys ducking for cover—
but nothing goes wrong or cinematic yet,
the premonitions have not yet invented regret—

we create
this moment that leaves the spectacle of shipwrecks out,
pull out the egg-white chocolate flesh, and eat, and lick.