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Safe in the wet nest's rocking
I listen, with a passion. to a conversation about passions
Rising muffled from the party's tossing to and fro, below, below,
While a world away, upstairs on a huge expanse of white cotton,
With one gesture becoming an origami whale
Breaching silently the smoked-glass horizons of dresser-mirrors
She and I, remembering some tricks for odd half hours spent alone
Travel tides not knowing what needs destroy our hearts.
The Party's ceiling, our bed's floor, hardly creaking with our pressing.
But just as the Ocean's creases can become too fine
So cruising her body my hands have no future
Await the tragedy of the ******* to fly true and strike home -
So, at the moment of our coming, killing the whale
Only I know the enormous guessing it takes
Striking the blow personally in a spiral stupor.
Does the whaler harpooner dream of his girl or does the young man with his girl imagine harpooning the whale? Ah well, who knows ...
68/M/Whitby, N Yorks, UK
(68/M/Whitby, N Yorks, UK)
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