A fissure in his belly, then the fish come out of the whale. All in all & one at a time they come down from the whale, back up to the whale from the ocean in a pillar. They shake the seaweed from their silver scales. It falls too, like green snow on small towns: the pentatonic-diatonic wintry mix. Accented notes leap out of the upward stream. The accented fish dart in droves in long lines up from the caverns, back to the whale, streaming as pebbles might, but larger, & with their silver they come up from the cavern in a wintry mix brought again to its higher sill from which to be tossed on the people. The small town approaches. The floor rises. The pace quickens—but the flakes are persistent in their pebbling. Suddenly, horizon & gravity & all footing disappears. The current drops. The small fish are suspended up in the turbulent stream, the geyser's slow motion. Lifted out of the pebble holes, these smaller whales are now suspended all in all & among themselves. A moist fog & mist condenses on the scales. A fissure in these smaller bellies: the new fish come out of the fish. They split the old bellies & winter the cavern with silver in their scales & in droves the seaweed shakes the ocean out of the salt. The long lines, the sound of scales larger, streaming a mix of fish & fish-of-fish that might dart less than shake the whales down to cavern down. Come the wintry scaled fish-of-fish endlessly darting, the whole cavern coated in a black whale of seaweed, the scales lined up larger than pebble droves, high as a single scale coming down with a pillar of winter, pillar of salt, the long large and the large silver. Sound might, but larger, from out of the fish. The whale come down from fish with fish-of-fish. The cavern do come out as the fish & with the fish the small town shakes the salt from their coats with the streaming sound, the larger line, the endless come, must converge.
-Dr. Michael Gossett
feeds for ,