THE GIRL FROM THE MUSSEL RESTAURANT
We are attractively wretched, you and I,
as thirteen-year-old girls when we wake up.
Late in the day we sound out the bare rocks,
slip on the kelp, sit on the salt-white surface,
and cling onto what could be called our house.
If we were stinging jellyfish we would
possibly have a greater understanding of water.
And we think of the same thing, you and I,
in cheerful disgust, in sucking shame −
seductive and aromatic,
leaning against a pinball machine.