Hello.
Tony is asking to hear this poem.
This is untitled also.
Your perfume makes me shiver.
We counted seven dead whales on the beach.
They will never see the face of God.
They are diseased.
When all the water and those dead mammals stop struggling,
you will paint them in colors that were not theirs.
Distorting reflections the way a still sea would.
And all those visitors you have will
become acquainted with the spouts and tales of the dead,
and think that the sea is not such a vast room.