Not An Oyster

by Bill Jansen

Passive oyster who art has put into a shell,
sanctified be thy dream, thy bread sticks come,
thy flesh be light, thy bed of lettuce clean
and fresh upon thy plate, in this still life
by some anonymous realist, possibly French.
Thy meaning remain stubbornly obscure
to us on earth as we are to those in heaven.
May the tides of light that enter this room
(somewhere a toilet drains) be always blue.
Black fingernails of night not open you.
Weary maids keep you straightened on wall.
No vandal ignore thy do not disturb aura.
And lead us not into cheap hotel temptations,
as we contemplate thy calculus of illusion.
O let us taste thy template of reality,
thy cracking paint and immortality.
Or maybe not, because on looking closer
I see that you are a cabbage, not an oyster,
bruised by thy fall from the earthy Paris sky.