Wallowing in the stomach of a whale,
sitting on your own pruning limbs,
chewing on Ice Breakers to keep something in your mouth
in the blurred, silent lines between the stars and the sea.
You, driftwood,
knee-deep in a rancid pool of blood and rusted pennies,
of floundering, tapered flesh and
stained scraps of canvas.
The creature sails on singing shanties
with you in the hull,
on course for deep water,
indifferent to your mutiny.
Beneath the red-ribbed deck,
you try a prayer, but
you have lost the promise of salvation
in the belly of the whale.
Write your letters, talk to yourself, splash around, and know
you are trapped
in the fickle gut
of a stubborn fish who will never swallow.
PLUTO BLOOMING 