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‘Whiteness in wateriness’

White body’s got a babyblue patina / frame acting a hilt for harness. Their heads swell down to a fixed smile, does not fade / hooked lips deliver false jocularity out to you / to me. Not what it feels / for real. That heft with sheen’s caught chafing, a rubbing gone on years under tan nylon strap / with it for so long a hue-of-sap residue’s building on the strands. A little loosening -- still on. Blisters pulse a hot pink in rings / water slips a cover to hide from sight tho. In Bunu / white is water. So / this saddling’s really wrong because they’re really pure -- ‘whiteness in wateriness.’ Matching transparency of what it is in / as clear in own substance as that of its host -- that liquid. In a home we try it / to get in a shape it mimics. At night fill hollow porcelain -- shape of it aping the belly of these whales. Our whole body in and under a density / floating, and most of us hold no fact for it--like Fanta bottles at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. But they are still bound, even at night / somewhere that Russian bathes in a recall -- of pulling the belts across it taut.

[Funfun]