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Monday, January 09, 2012

On the half shell

We aren’t, necessarily, up. Beat not

beaten, we feast, and we will be. Come,
tell me, what information can’t be held in

our fatty acids? Immodestly, we’ve had both
the morsel modified and not. Its tiny bits mix
in us and with us, so it can inform us

forward with a digestibly new identity. We have
eaten more than this too, and it’s all in us,
with the knowledge of a world less well-preserved.
Less is on ice, but there’s more for us to taste,

and it’s the more and we’re the more. We
know of it, what it is that can’t get inside of us
if we don’t eat it. Let it, get inside, it won’t
eat at us. It won’t, it can’t shake us from

the unusual way we’ve wobbled through
a closely-measured firmament cold-packed
with these immeasurable clues. We’re no less

permanent there than this half-shell is here. Fixed
by a thin glaze, it awaits one sun, or the tide’s finding

its stomach again for mollusk, fine sand and pebbles.

3 comments:

Ostensible Truth said...

oh I liked this - the tone - the whimsical surreality and twists - "We’re no less
permanent there than this half-shell is here." - and I find myself nodding along throughout - great write!

Eileen T O'Neill ..... said...

Francis,

A simply placid and delightful read. Nice to find....

Happy New Year Francis and all good wishes for the coming year with your wonderful words.

Eileen :)

WAS said...

A sad musicality weaves through this epistemelogical shucking.

We in fisherman land always eat the stomachs too -- they check weekly for red tide. A little more salt to savor in our inevitable attempts to exceed the balance.

What are the odds I'd encounter the word "flibertygibbet" twice in one morning?