Whale’s Love Song
Some days it’s unclear where the anchor is
but it holds in those submarine echoes,
the cetacean memories. The lean girl
said being lovesick is like falling in
the ocean: waves hit, but they’re not heavy.
If only. Wipe out that tidal foam’s light
droning. Infatuation is really
pulling seasick, so scared you’ll make a mess,
so struck by each touch that you purge aright
to keep the foreseeable green at bay.
(Not that I can’t trust, but just measure a
captain’s log for sinking ships, whales that passed.)
And yet, with age comes the compulsion to
open fresh coves. Cut point breaks. Dissipate.
Feast on chances to witness weight, feel berthed;
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