Hurricane with its shelves
Of where we should be:
'Kay, man?
I'm in the cay, man.
Boisterous oyster spreads his fan;
Meet my demand, he says,
And the sand is raised.
The sun brazed its sweet domain.
So I could not be fain.
I watched the slugs all slain
'Neath the serrated edge of Sun,
Porous when Mercury crossed,
Or else embossed.
I wondered about its qualities
To a raconteur--a shiver, a stutter,
A shimmer, a blur?
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Submission Name: Hurricane With Its Shelves
