I am making a list
of everything I need
to tell you.
It is long—
about pinnipeds
and the things
people glue to them.
How fat is life for them.
How they sleep while drifting,
just like I would
if I could dive
to a thousand feet,
holding my breath
effortlessly.
How their little black boxes
five-minute-epoxied
onto their heads
tell us things.
Vital things:
Where the Blob came from,
that shocking warm mass
out in the Pacific.
What is happening in secret
under the ice
to the heart
of the ocean. But
writing is grieving.
Every sentence
is the death
of another
there’s no room for.
