The beckoning whale call.

The canoe, my tongue.

I, the sailor who cannot sail,
simply sits at the mouth and waits,
waits
for the whale
to open its wide galaxy and
exhale 

My lukewarm brain.

The sailor panicks, and,
lured by the scent
of the breath
and the gelt, the dark chocolate guilt,
tumbles overboard and convulses,
trying to drown, drown in
salt and
silt.

If you've ever drowned I think you know what it feels like.

My uncontrollable urge.

I wish I hadn't opened my eyes, because gosh
the saltwater stung
like sun baked fish 
in the freezing sun
and I
the only one
with melting guts and squirming lungs.

The sea rollicked, that poor old sailor, nets only tangled him deeper in the yawn

For if the whale smiled it was lost to darkness,
If the snores of coral woke him, they were swallowed in staleness,
paleness,
uncontrollable wailing,
the sailing,
the canoe wrapped in presents of 
my green tendons, leaping
licking 
the edge of the sand and creeping
forward.

Into nothing. Finding instead the fun of trying too hard was too much,
For the sailor who could not sail.