I was woken from a dream
of pilot whales so large
they could be seen from the highway
great humps the shape of the hills
around them, clusters of barnacles
the size of cities, and on one
a huge, gleaming eye –
luminous, glass-smooth
globe amidst the turbulence of water,
the landscape roiling with the plunge and gyrate
of hulking bodies –
by an unprovoked Heraclean nosebleed
that spattered the bathroom sink
brighter than stills in horror films as I scrabbled for
tissue
which I would promptly bleed through:
on its end, a cherry of clotted blood
round and bright, gleaming
like the whale’s eye looking
at me from across the orchards and farm lands
he had wrecked.
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