Holt

The den is thick with sooty smells,
that tongue-glaze of something old

and animal and the coughing
throat clench of fish and crawdads.

How does a man come to be
named for this place? An ottery

man, a man of sleek whiskeryness
and a land-awkward romp

of too-short limbs, cracking
shellfish on a hairy belly

and mugging for the cameras
with shining oceanic eyes.