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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