Maybe the beached whale has a point:

we are living in the likeness of a city—
check the water tower—the sugar factory:

only pictures can do us justice:

here’s me twenty years ago in Gulf Shores

just before the evacuation—as close to the surge
as they’d let me get—I forgot to smile:

tell me—what regret doesn’t leave us 
in a room we’ve just woken to: 

on late rainy weeknights like this 

I learn the streets are what hollow 
out the corners—not the pizzeria—

not the muslin wrapped windows:

when I hear someone cough behind a door
I think of the possibilities—I think of you:

lining up the summers 
like rabbit pelts—

a small girl in the bayou weaving 
silver thread through your fish nets—

because the real world never fooled anyone:

maybe the whale is a couple tons of conjecture—
our bodies as prop piece

(sand plaster

rebar cage): 

is it the whale—or the word you say 
to keep the whale from washing out to sea?