Logging, spy-hopping, bubble-netting.

You wave flipper-legs;

your breath clouds

blow in the bay.


You sound:  your humpy back,

tiny hipbones hidden,

your flukes up

like splaying feet.


Your lunging,

great hungers,

mysterious love affairs.

You sing where we cannot go.


You must be awake to breathe.


Your carcass once

on a stony beach.

Baleen fabric, skull bone cave,

the long purple leather of your skin.



August 2004


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