Hudson Bay

I rejoiced.

Cloistered aside the joists
of a mostly missing beach house
a landslide had foisted
upon the rocks below,
something I scarcely saw
in the morning mist
under the sun’s penumbra:
a cluster of moist oysters.

Running my fingers
across the mucous
atop the mollusk’s
calcium shell,
I could tell
these would be
the right consistency.

Normally,
I’d premoisten the oysters
in my trusty rusty
steel bucket,
then have to
remoisten them at home.

Not these.

Hoisting them into my khakis,
I eventually began to feel
their mucosa tongues
lapping at the cotton
of my pockets,
moistening them.

It was a good morning.

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