Slightly Drunk and Thinking About Whales Again

I know when I come across myself in a bar—
elbows leaning toward a glass of lost love
listening to the roar in my head
sipping the far off liquid sea. I adjust
the coaster with my finger and thumb
as somewhere seaweed entwines
between my pointed fins. People rush by
on land, proof that the human race
is just a race, each wave a repetition
of the clicks and pulses
of the soul’s echo, our afterlife
framed within the wide embrace
of white whale bones
as required boredom kills slowly
or suddenly. I travel only
to pretend I’m something else
in a liminal space to feel
the eternal potential
of sight reporting beauty
opposing landscapes standing close
to one another, each wave
and each reef echoing
with the sonorous last call—