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When World is Whale

Something surfaces. Not an idea. Not
an idea of an idea or even its underside,
though just afterward, beneath the surface,
a white-green shadow, or the opposite of shadow,
fades into darker depths below. You know nothing,
not where it came from, not why it appears
or shows a largeness built from a myriad
of smallnesses so little they pretend not to be,
before they are caught, caught by the one, this one,
this presence of something, someone, moving
below the motion of all you can’t see, all you have
forgotten in the sleep of your sleep, cradle-rocked
above what you would call love: of water for air, of
the space inside for the outside, of black for the blue
that it breathes.