math head

The Shrimp Office
I am in brine on my own time, alive in salt,
waiting for death. My shell shadows me,
gets under my skin. My eyes are decimals.
Insect of the sea, I methodically work
abstract figures in fluid ledgers. My life
runs constantly through endless meals.
I am translucent and warm, working,
instead of resting, hiding, instead of fighting.
I think of general accounting, which column
I will fall in, plus or minus, at every occasion.
Even at home, settling debts, I turn to my wife,
the luminous petal of her face, and, wringing
my appendages, say “the numbers just don’t balance.”
She sighs and turns away, while I run another tape,
quietly disturbing the sonorous seascape.


Sean Webb

Sean Webb sometimes dreams of the number 52, for no apparent reason. His email address is You can go to his website and find little there.