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Category: Writing and Poetry
The whale that invented me is dying The rescuers are unable to rescue him and resign themselves to allow nature its course and I wonder at that map its invisible design where we follow or are taken
the rocking, lulling eye so small in the lolling bulk of blubber too large to thrash, too moored to its own weight Rolled again and again against the beach until the flesh is sanded down to pink the colour of my flesh a crowd has gathered at the crashing edge to see what it is to be an animal so close to death
Seven tonnes heroically proportioned If we had met on the water if he surfaced and I hovered above the waves would he have accepted me as his creation or swallowed me as Zeus swallowed Metis
Now though he is dying and so I will not take my lantern and my packed lunch climb through the balein to the cave of his belly I will not be reborn through this
03:06 PM
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