by Mitchell Metz

Show me
you clam shack muscle,
not some slummin sailor boy.

Grumble grace. Crack
and suck each heaped mollusk
to a new definition of devour.

Sop the platter juice
with forty spittin images of bread
and thick thumbs.

Use the oozed grit
to file your teeth, pepper
your gullet with stone of its own.

But until your fingers
find their way blind
to stroke each urgent valve

as reward for broke open
and going down,

I gotta believe
you belong in the corner
talkin tradewinds, chattin jibs.

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