first time i came across a beluga whale i had no hands,
found myself thinking about harold pinter, whale was thinking about
the dreams of other fish,
so caught up in the funk that it thought i was six, again.
‘towards nothing’ — what shall we say, are the remains
of the day?
my white whale is a recurring dream,
i will not see doctors,
doctors will see me.
somedays the extremities are cold —
two shots of coffee and i’m ready to go.