He pops  
a random clam shell, 
    me,  
just another half shell, 
out of the lobster-claw ocean, tidal flats'  
shallow waves crawling across soaked sand. 

Wanderer, not searching, 
yet he finds what other men think is only  
    one sea-washed cherry  
of a shipwrecked cornucopia.  
    For him,  
filling enough. 
He will not choke on a gluttonous feast. 

His delicate pinch is soft and seductive, 
able to grasp and snap the prize 
stem like a violin bow he lays in my hand 
as he gobbles up the flesh 
blue for galactic-mirror gasping.