Quahog The dark inside my shell congeals like a dream. The tidal ebb and flow rarely disturb me. A few sand-grains slip between my valves and irritate but hardly ruffle my indifference to the vistas you represent with your slinky linen skirts and thousand-dollar perfume bestowed by professional lovers. I’ve adopted the title and stance of quahog because it critiques cohort, a buzzword homonym belovéd of group-think experts whom you also detest despite prospering in their afterglow. If after showering off the scent you sheath yourself in blue jeans and revive that corduroy shirt I once admired you could stroll along the beach at dusk and deploy your senses. The salt air would lather and preserve your _expression and the example of the surf would engender certain rhythms of which you know you’re capable. Perhaps as I hear you shuffle pass I’ll rise to catch the final tint of afterglow on my shell. Maybe you’ll note my corrugations and accept for a moment that symmetry as routine as this trumps entire modes of fashion to which you’ve devoted organs few people even possess.