Limpets At Port Quin…
A gaping hole
Gouged
From a grey, sinister cliff,
Like a glaring opening
Gored
From a sore, toothless gum.
Sinewy boulders
Glistened,
Guarding a tumbled cave,
Bone slivers
Drilled,
Dripping, bloodless, numb…
A group of limpets,
Beached
From a spiteful, clawing tide,
Like a Cheyenne camp
Isolated
From the white-man’s advance.
Conical shells
Stranded,
Storing jellied flesh,
Skin tepees
Huddled,
Hiding indigenous romance…
Pete Ray...
The groups of limpets inside a Port Quin cave
reminded me of American Native Indian
wigwams…
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