Ichor of old gods

Pitter-patters solemnly

Gaia drinks her fill

—

//

Tell me of whales,

Lumbering gentle beasts

Wading, drifting—

Through pools reflected

In the Milky Way’s eye

They cut through

Glassed water—

Smooth bodies

Gracing tides

Their ridged throats

Conjure sounds

So mellow

And their eyes

Droop so peacefully

No vision

Dwelt so holy—

And no vision

Exacerbated

Such deep longing