Day Three of National Poetry Month

I Visited an Oyster Cannery


Bushel, bushel, bushel
Rowboats in the oyster pen
stuck in the clucky muck.
There are certain styles, you see,
Rainwater stumps or pants cut off
At the shin. Net, net net.
Let me be perfectly honest.
I am chirping away from a certain
Distance. I dream places into my rooms
And I conjure
What I can no longer see
From the red, red chair.


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