I've travelled the world, laced
by oceans and rivers nearly forgotten.
Sometimes I keep track of failure
by all the shores I've passed.
I have never seen a white whale,
nor wondered why I haven't
before now—a small fish
in an anonymous, massive pond.
So when I'm weary of illusions,
verse a blank sweep across
my page or mammoth's back,
I thrust my pen like a harpoon
into anything grey, pretending
dun is white, life is lovely and infinite.