In the barrel,
I float.
loneliness of night brings silence
to thought and a stillness therein.
how far is the tread and
the Word of God?
Here he wades, stifled in the shallows
of a flooded shore; the shore
of every bloated body, every withered tongue.

Here, there is a horizon
that meets the sea, therefore
never there at all.

In the barrel,
I sink.
Down the belly
of a whale I also call myself.
Digestion without disintegration.
And what becomes of the whale
when life blooms a sea-green skin
from inside:
a stomach of the afterlife
again and again and again?

And some night,
the barrel will float
without evensong.
And some far off night,
will return empty in pieces,
some night,
when no bodies are left
and God repents in silence,
weeping on the shore of his own passing.