a seething crop of whales in the distance: our sirens
and underneath it all the ebb and swell of a sick wind
have you ever felt stranger than when you said that word; 'wound'?
the stars were our panic buttons. we fanned our fingers like that
and morse-coded the bear, his daughter and the painters easel.
In ten years we will call our son Cetus -- I cant pretend to understand
how we could have been so stupid.
how through chapped lips we forced our words to rhyme, as if
somehow, that would save us.
how we even first learned to use that language.
I have never felt stranger than when you said that word; soon