The Blue Points and Apalachicolas,
their names all slipp'ry and jagged cloisters.
Wellfleets, Chincoteagues and Kumamotos,
like tearful agates secreting moisture.
The ocean's ever-beating stony lungs,
their liquor hinting cucumbers and steel,
like swallowing a second chilly tongue.
To taste the minerals in which they sleep,
I fumble to find a hidden notch, and
with swearing and gashing and knuckles bled,
at last, twenty-two pounds of pressure pop,
and my blunt blade trawls fruit from briny bed.
And what have I reaped with this crude device?
Twelve cupped hands atop a bed of cracked ice.