Including Me

Voluptuously slow and undulating whales prevail:
the treasures of a hungry movement through a moment
which in surfacing, descending, and resurfacing

put an infinity of lies to “journey”: everything is neither
here nor there, and there and here: dimensionally
present and accounted for by various strange measures

whose m.o. we seem to be remanded to this incarnation
not to know: sentenced by authorities we sometimes
get a glimpse and hint of in the glow of late November

early snow: those blurry flurries that will come and go,
and come again to sail and burrow through our primate
land-locked views – bemusing and inviting: “come on in,

the water’s fine!” – no matter if it’s frozen crystal or as rich
and dark as wine, the kind through which a whale
voluptuously undulates her lovely blubbered front and rear.

The Universe is made of orgasm, my dear, and you’re
a droplet in its vast eternally ejaculating sea. Remember
that when you reflect on anything, including me.


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