For The Death of 100 Whales by Michael McClure

Hung midsea 
Like a boat mid-air 
The liners boiled their pastures: 
The liners of flesh, 
The Arctic steamers
Brains the size of a teacup 
Mouths the size of a door

The sleek wolves 
Mowers and reapers of sea kine. 
THE GIANT TADPOLES 
(Meat their algae) 
Lept 
Like sheep or children. 
Shot from the sea's bore.

Turned and twisted 
(Goya!!) 
Flung blood and sperm. 
Incense. 
Gnashed at their tails and brothers 
Cursed Christ of mammals, 
Snapped at the sun, 
Ran for the Sea's floor.

Goya! Goya! 
Oh Lawrence 
No angels dance those bridges. 
OH GUN! OH BOW! 
There are no churches in the waves, 
No holiness, 
No passages or crossings 
From the beasts' wet shore.