Too many days, slipping lyrics over lips.
Wave after wave of unanswered murmur

the whale keeps singing.
In this whole ocean, not a single reply.

Does he tire of his own voice? The delicate
hums and clicks. Do we all do this?

Sing an unending song of lament
to ourselves? Until all the knowing

turns to nonsense at the snapping of our lyre?
The whale doesn’t care. He goes on singing.

Pushing his heavy music through the waves,
diving and breaching, the slick wet of his skin

shimmering with each vibration, each song
sending a ripple through the tide, that melds

with a wave, that breaks and froths at the feet
of some clutch of children playing at the beach.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Anthony R. Cardno during our annual Kickstarter.]