Saturday, 3 April 2021

LOIME WE CALL IT

LOIME WE CALL IT 


reading your poem

we tilt at the anger at anguish

the grit in the oyster is a tear

loime we call it

although such a word does not exist

we call it loime 

for the pearls are puerile 

too sweet and uniform strung

here is the prised clam

the cockle-less cockle shell

unhinged 

filter feeding on your words

the sting of the tentacles 

of so many thoughts redacted

below the tideline the wait is diurnal 

again and again the tears of your grit 

loime we call it

what do you call it

if anything

do you recall 

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