The whales that you make
out of unwhaleness: wood, tin,
abandoned elements, dive
and rise and breast an invisible ocean,
tremendous in this air
singing unheard songs
populating with fancy,
with the seeing-where-nothing-is,
our small, our unwhaled world.
Mine’s maybe a sleek three inches.
A thin umbilical attaches it to a stand
with a kind of utter balance
so that it may or may not be here,
its great bulk held tenuous
in its breaking moment
as the air parts and the sight
is delighted and a smile greets
the new made thing, the art.