Limpets At Port Quin
A gaping hole,
Gouged
From grey, sinister cliff;
Like a glaring opening,
Gored
From sore, toothless gum.
Sinewy boulders
Glistened,
Guarding tumbled cave;
Bone slivers
Drilled,
Dripping, bloodless, numb.
A group of limpets,
Beached
From spiteful, clawing tide,
Like a Cheyenne camp,
Isolated
From white-man’s advance.
Conical shells,
Stranded,
Storing jellied flesh;
Skin tepees
Huddled,
Hiding indigenous romance…
Pete Ray
April 2008
The groups of limpets inside a Port Quin cave reminded me of American Native Indian wigwams.
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