I stood at the modern knothole,
my eyes on the pivoting modern stars and naphthalene green
turfs and surfaces.
Behind me the stone fleur-de-lis
sank back over the horizon,
carving a fleur-de-lis-shaped track in air
that spread into a bigger hole.
                                  Up on the hill,
a white tent had just got unsteadily to its feet
like a foal or a just-foaled cathedral.
Down on the beach, ten black whales were crashing
slowly, through themselves,
draped in wet bedsheets.
The bedsheets smoked into the air.
I opened my palm. A green edifice opened there.
It seemed to breathe but that was air breathing for it,
lifting a corner or a column.
Goodbye, my thirteenth-century.
                                  I folded the money away.
What do ye do when ye see a whale?
                                  I sing out.