The light is oceanic green, and makes hexagonic light on the platform, with claws and gewgaws of light.
Each side of the monolith forms a point, and when the moon shines coldly
from the cowl of space (a bell, liquid, as sound expands and gets thicker in the sea).
Now a sea song
Descending like a cork on her waves, Floating on her water wall?
Although the darkness made us slaves to the moon’s arresting call.
I could not break from its cold grasp so bound our paths would be
Each drifting sound her liquid bell made us the whale-dense sea.
Each bottle fell to the sailor’s bones; a house on the oceans’ floor
And inside her bricks which opened there I saw a rising velvet door.
A grove of spikes: When the Quaker hunter espoused nonviolence, and stuffed his musket,
Sharpened his hook, with its long sisal and hemp rope, into a puffing heart
Bigger than an oat-fed baby, he turned in the dewlight like a battering ram.
True intoxication gurgled up in a thermos of adventure. They’d go out from Massachusetts for years.
They were looking, but their prey were listening.
~Whale Poem, Sean Singer