There is still a spotlight aimed at a paper moon.
There is still a young woman reading the classics
out loud in a downtown park—
though the park lights are out
and the whale is pulled through the streets in the evening
by ten groaning oxen. We are all being swallowed.
Night by night, the avenues empty,
the whale hollows, its gut expands.
But it is warm in here. There’s plenty to eat.
We’re burning the blubber for light
by which to sew tents. In the tail,
someone is stirring a soup, someone is baking bread.