Hog Island Oysters
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.
Source: Poetry (December 2007)