I make my boys stand in the wind

and look at the ocean

unhinging itself over and over.
I tell them that among the waves craving

themselves there is a mass of blue permanence,

that below the surface tension of water
there are escapees from our squinting.

I tell them to wait for their bodies to break

the susurrating gossip of the sea.
Then, punching vapour over the rail

of the wavering horizon

filament fists scatter in the offshore breeze.
We see their slick nodes heading south,

sounding sinus clicks,

lobtailing their flukes like petals.
I point to the whales clapping the drum of the world.

But all my children can say is that they’re cold

and ask when they can go inside.