We extruded our ducks and sought carapace
among the last motels in Lobsterworld.
But, always some puny task
required my needing.
So, I merely clove sallow smoke.
You remarked, "Only invasion can cure silent creep."
We were two storms behind the near fall, uglying
into sinister when candy time came.
Out in the real world of shrimp
shacks and cheap beer, oysters shuck
themselves. Tiny feet pit-pat and juice-scream
from their shells. Hairless
clits frog off as the bar band
flambes, "Ode To My Sister, Irene".
Ever notice how noon wind will bark at trees
in crafty earth ditties that drive you insane?
Or how one windsong tearfully sung
keeps you one leaf ahead of the gutter?
Or how the laden branch always shears off
always ahead of the rain?