Over a table-surface
the lampreys of fingers
subsisting on air and
nothing. They
erupt
into sentience as all things
fossils admit them
as honorary sediment at the seabed and
their hands pretend
their bones/spermaceti belong
to still more
immense organs invisible with krill and
size. That isn’t me, the hand-whale appears
to say, it’s some selfless
sprawling
thing.
Read the rest of Overland 239
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