Two fragments on bivalves I   a whelp shakes off its seeds and shells at the parapet;   salt cockled limbs repose as the two tin rooms thrum with the sound of oysters baking in seagrass.   II to speak a little we say what bird names we know to each other as they pass by.   While the fish steeps in milk I neck my oysters over the sink   and count the kicked in fence palings across the street. Kyle Orton