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My father, the oceanographer
knew the language of whales
yet tripped over the sound of his own name
They say the cure for death
is drowning and for a lisp a bucket of salt water
*
In white gumboots he entered the stomach of a whale sat brooding under the great arched bones of a church
invoking the mantra of LFA sonar
whale fall and echolation
stripped to his underwear,
so great was the heat, and blubber he said
now there was a word to make you weep
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