I used to be mystified by whale-shaped volcanoes.

Now, I know it’s all just so much razzle-dazzle,

a certain belching of acid or fire, a little rumble

shaking us up toward our only glimpse of sky.

Sometimes I think our whale volcano might be

on a birthday cake, white frosting under our feet

if only we could dig far enough. If only we had

any inclination, or enough shovels. Sometimes

I think we’re all alone, and there’s no such thing

as birthdays. Only saltwater. Only lava. Only

the sound of our own breath, repeating.