O, bilious quahog!
O, my willowy owl.
You curl, an elusive
ghost, twice around
the miraculous cowbird
of my mercurial heart.
In seaweed, in salt, we squander,
we abscond with an afternoon.
We eat it whole, like a truffle.
It melts slowly, like a nonpareil.
I lied: My heart is no cowbird, not
miraculous. It is a dunderhead,
a generator of ego, a cyclops.
But it only has eye for you.
NaPoWriMo, Day 20 prompt: Write a poem using at least five from a list of certain words. I’m going to make you click to find out which ones, but I will tell you that I used 21 of them,