I should have been born in a million years
(as a whale)
to roam the lunar seas
and fill them with whale-song.
In my huge and placid mind
I'd dream all dreams, all non-things,
non-people, non-places,
all that isn't,
and I'd sing them down.
For each truth ten billion lies,
and I sing them down.
The dragonettes, the starfish,
the silver manta-rays all
listen, knowingly,
to this eulogy for the the hidden country,
the super-real, the never living,
fundamentally voided, but whose vaults,
if burst, would choke the universe
with splendors beyond number.
I sing them down.
With bellows
with pings
with waves
and mathematics
with signs and symbols
I sing them all down to rest with the dead.