I don’t know how to write a poem about apricot rosemary ice cream and downs syndrome oysters. They both melt on the tongue with powerful differences. One churned after being picked and snipped by local fingers, served on the edge of a cliff in a cobblestone town that stands the test of time – thick houses shuttered, an empty church on fire with light inside, a pizza truck outside, the fountains of clothes-washing water, not to drink. The other plucked from the sea, shucked an