Mike Snape – Ahab


Under a grey stare the
sonar screen

remains impassive,
green blips blinking

their ephemeral pulse,
sinking without trace

in the gaps between
grid-lines. Discrete

measurements are
useless here,

this whale sounds
within the interstices,

no recalibrating
can capture it

in two dimensional
black and white. Doubt

when left on its own
to grow

coats the corridors like
a film, a blurry

beneath the brine.

Trapped by Zeno,
I unravel trying

to pick apart
these bulkheads;

the thought
of discontinuity

between surface and skin
is ever-present,

stalking somewhere
in the walkways when

my attention is turned.
I think about the dead spaces,

the void
within these atoms

of lifeless carbon.

What is left

of us to hold,
after the knife

has been so

Neurons fire
a steel impulse

and that is what
we call joy.


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