Oysters adhere
to things, no eyes:
spat on the smooth
curve of a pier
they feel shadows
and snap shut.
The sun wavers
while anchored below
each distills
Tomales Bay,
accreting waves
within its shell.
Voluptuous and cold,
Kumamoto trembles
on a thin fork,
liquefaction
of cloud. Rain
distorts glass,
our tavern submerged
all afternoon.
Source: Poetry (December 2007).
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This poem originally appeared in the December 2007 issue of Poetry magazine
Born in Canton, New York, Devin Johnston grew up in Winston-Salem and received his PhD from the University of Chicago.
Johnston is the author of several collections of poetry, including Sources (2008), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, Aversions (2004) and Telepathy (2001). His prose writing includes the critical study Precipitations: Contemporary American Poetry as Occult Practice (2002) and Creaturely and . . .
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