Head-Spinning Whiplash

Whales, wings, and fingers,
Pointer finger. There’s a swirl
Of words with and without themselves,

Leaves that settle in sentences
Or almost sentences, stars,
The little asterisms that pop out.

There’s a huge rack of books on the shelf.
There they sit. Mute blocks. What if
Everything you struggled to recall

In the tongue-tied moment of laughter
That froze in the sunny room
Held no voice or meaning at all.