Said the Barnacle,
You enchant me, with your carnival
Yours is a system of slow.
There is you, the pulley
and there is you, the weight.
Your eyes wide on a hymn.
Your deep song like the turn
of that first,
that earliest of wheels.
Said the Whale,
I have seen you, little encruster,
in that business of fouling the ships.
Known, little drum machine, you
to tease out food from the drink.
Little thimble of chalk and hard water.
You could be a callus of whiter skin.
You could be a knucklebone. You
who hang on me,
like a conscience.