They have called it
the loneliest of things, a voice
in the wilderness, singing
what nothing else will sing.
Is it
motherless, all that hunger?
Some last calf? The past
as it sounds?
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
But aren’t we all
like that, roaming
the coldness of the oceans —
and you, too, half
in madness,
half of you that fathoms
you have to be your own song to be found.