A sleepless force summoned me

to the belly of the whale.


Inside, of many mansions, one

was fashioned for my shape.


The whale and I were both brought forth

by the hand that cast the lot.


It rose slowly in the air,

a thousand days and nights unfolding.


It was a priestly hand before the flock,

unmatched in its cunning.


Long before, even as we slept,

the fibers and the threads


of our lives, great and small,

were brought together, and entwined


with the entrails of dusk

ghostly and luminous above the mast.




Greg Teran practices law in Boston during those rare moments when he is not shoveling snow.  One can’t help but have a mind of winter these days.