Spermaceti

I sound my sight, and flexing skeletons eddy in our common wall. With a sonic bolt from the fragrant chamber of my head, I burst the lives of some and slow, backwashing them into my mouth. I lighten, breathe, and laze below again. And peer in long low tones over the curve of Hard to river-tasting and oil-tasting coasts, to the grand grinding coasts of rigid air. How the wall of our medium has a shining, pumping rim: the withstood crush of deep flight in it, perpetual entry! Only the holes of eyesight and breath still tie us to the dwarf-making Air, where true sight barely functions. The power of our wall likewise guards us from slowness of the rock Hard, its life-powdering compaction, from ist fissures and streamy layers that we sing into sight but are silent, fixed, disjointed in. Eyesight is a leakage of nearby into us, and shows us the taste of food conformed over its spines. But our greater sight is uttered. I sing beyond the curve of distance the living joined bones of my song-fellows; I sound a deep volcano's valve tubes storming whitely in black weight; I receive an island's slump, song-scrambling ship's heartbeats, and the sheer shear of current-forms bracketing a seamount. The wall, which running blind I demolish, heals, prickling me with sonars. My every long shaped cry re-establishes the world, and centres its ringing structure.