In the field through which the observer walks—
the black boot of one standing as if to measure
the opening of the other’s mouth, having come up
to breathe forever and die that way, these giants
and waste to bone on the beach, a smooth path
worn into sand by their fins, the surf
to rinse them relieves the heat and pain
of their organs crushing under their bodies’
perhaps all of this is a question
of the magnetic field— there must be
an invisible eddy projected from the Earth’s core
through which all things drift, and from that
comes a sudden flow of tremors pulling the
conducting the field of whales toward coastline
gently enough to move them along salt’s buoyancy
and yet with such force to compel
their immensity out of the ocean—the act of
flowing become flux,
as change in the nature of breath for example—
such that oxygen inside the body becomes new
through an act of intimacy—a molecule of air
from pockets in the lungs, the stream charging
from neuronal pathways, rushing along synapses
like electricity passing through coils in waves
of sparking light, like waves of water produced
by the submarine drifting of plates—the Earth’s
then funneling upward through mountains created
by colliding masses—
so hot even iron, able to change properties in
the path of the field,
loses its power—so high the waves reach fifty
and plow into the seaside, a wall of water
runners in the crush of the ferocious tide,
drowning them at sea and among the timber of
and so many miles away, the whales drift up
on the opposite shore of a continent, lying on
trying to right themselves at my feet.
Something driven between: a beak.
A spring of teal and a troubling of goldfish.
Hair is feather, is scales. Your knuckles pressing the dough
Rain scours pollen from the ground. River of salt.
Sound of bells tolling: exaltation of larks.
Yeast in the water. Waves rise.
A siege of cranes. A mutation of thrushes.
Bread made with honey—drops of it in the center.
Straw floating in the rain—perhaps a hollow bone.
A grist of bees.
A strand of your hair in my fingers. Nothing left but the dust.
A wedge of flying swans. Descent of woodpeckers.
A drop of honey, a knife, an empty plate on the
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