Mussels at low tide

When Lady Thames has gone out
and glimpses of her underneath she rudely

reveals, frothy skirts of foam do bibs
make which tucker up nicely under our shells to

serve as slurp-catchers for us messy-eater
bivalves. Silt-hungry, hinges creak open

to release our one-footed scoops of tongue
which lick the meat of the river into us. Toeless,

we dandle in mud ––cockles and mussels alive-oh––
snap shut against harvest by boatman, gull, urchin.

In the lull of eddies, we feast and filter sluiced by
drain slop, the juice of pipes. We boat and brick

and scavenge as she turns, lifts currents of
petticoat, hides us back under.

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