Gluteals and Flukes (Dec. 20, 2004)

If you would write a fable for
little fishes, you would make
them speak like great whales.
-- Goldsmith to Johnson

Why does every great love
invoke a whale up from below?
How could so gentle a song
reveal such awful glutes
and flukes? My heraldic
big-fish rider knows the
polyphonic ways of love,
riding that blue wave
upon a sea-swallower's back,
holding fast to the gallop
which has sounded
every acre of abyss.
Feel the chaos in those
feral haunches which
both ride and power
today's wave toward
your next shore.
A brutaller lover of brine
and depth surges in
this pale white hand:
My song to you is
pure spermacetti love,
that sea of oil which
tides inside the bulk
which rides all seas
and spumes all
songs and wells.
My paper trope
pours ambergris
from every shelf in hell.