Living With Clams

Yesterday, I read a great poem
about clams, although evidently,
it turned out more to be
instructions for cooking them –
Linguini with clams,
not living with clams
like I thought – even though,
I want to know, how.

I mistake everything for what
I want it to be: recipes for poems,
poems for instruction manuals,
classrooms for cathedrals.
Once, even, I saw a man
but he turned out
to be just a clam.

Eventually, all the poems
end up sounding alike:
written in that same short
language of longing.

Steep burden,
how my heart puns about.

[Poem: Sarah Edwards //Two Serious Ladies]

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