My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death

—Matthew 26:38

 

Is it deaf, is it grotesque? Is it lonely,

the ocean’s sorrowful soul? What is its gender, 

its species? Is it hybrid? Virtuosic? Unique?

 

Thirty odd years now you’ve tracked me

as convoys of krill, those vertical ploughers, track currents. It’s solitude

I crave. I’ve quelled your accelerometer.

In International Klein Blue I thrash my weird tuba.

 

Your aquarium would still me, the fearful air you.

There’ll be no silly Hallmark

card or plush toy available for purchase from Walmart.