Like a pod of whales, but far heavier.
The shark who is still and thus suffocates.
A siege of cranes. A streak of tigers.
A word we manufacture for convenience,
a compressed way to express the collective,
to fit the many into one specific location.
The space somewhere past lust, the point
that approaches love with the shrewdness
of apes, the exaltation of larks. Without surfeit
the skunk must survive on what's discarded.
With or without purpose, the heart still beats
100,000 times a day. The heart still battles,
collects its resources into a wedge. A knot.
A fleet. A tower. A raft. Every name useless.
Every label insufficient. We cannot explain
this configuration of desire, how it develops
with the lurid flourish of strumpets. How it slips,
falls just beyond the grasp of millionaires.
