where whales were mountains
pulled in by small boats,
where fat was rendered
out of darkness
by the light of itself,
where what fell through
the slaughtering decks
was taken in by land
until it became a hill made of fat
and blood, a town built on it.
The whale is the thick house of yesterday
in red waters.
It is the curve of another fortune,
a greasy smell and cloud
of dark smoke
that hides our faces.
At night
in this town
where hungers
are asleep,
we sleep
on a bed of secret fat.
A whale passes.
From dark strands of water,
it calls
Light, Smoke, Water, Land.
I hear it singing,
I sit up, awake.
It is a mountain rising,
lovely and immense.
I see myself
in the shine of it
and I want light.
I am full
with greed.
Give to me
light.