Oysters adhere
to things, no eyes:

spat on the smooth
curve of a pier

they feel shadows
and snap shut.

The sun wavers
while anchored below

each distills
Tomales Bay,

accreting waves
within its shell.

Voluptuous and cold,
Kumamoto trembles

on a thin fork,
liquefaction

of cloud. Rain
distorts glass,

our tavern submerged
all afternoon.











Used by permission.