The whale song of my heart resonates
at the approach and remain of others.
My eyes widen when you and you and they and them and others
arrive and stay and talk.
What are we doing?
Action.
Ready.
Set.
Settle.
Pacifics and Atlantics are hops,
mediums for communication massages:
my ears vibrate in the median way
to confirm I hear you and you and the rest.
It's a start;
the start:
listen, careful soul,
baleen filters take the shrill out
and make a wave into a source of open pleasure.
We, fish.
We swim to the surface.
At the brine's edge
of the purple sky
time and place are distant relatives.
We are apples in our synchronous eyes.
Roman Ryan 