Cetus

We who are used to daily thingsare not used to this, whales

glistening as light falls across them,silencing itself. They do not seem

to move as we stand in the sun'smonotone, the late hour hammering

itself flat while a locust signalsfaintly and a finch goes off

in small arpeggios. Even afterthe whales have gone we still

stand there, and they reappear fallingthrough the universe as the sea

sways shut, and a lost bee landson my arm, twitching its gold thighs.