i sing the dead body of a dolphin drift-netted, snatched from the envelope of the glinting sea & i sing her name replaced (& i sing her gender inverted but that jingle? you'll never hear me crooning no one you see is smarter than he coz he was a she & her real name was Cathy i sing the remorse of her tanned TV trainer's tears—they struck a false note, as i recall, on the day he returned to visit long after the cameras had packed up & left her, forgotten her body, her brain captive on film stills in a deep tank, discarded just like yesterday's meat she swivelled & turned to sadly fix her one eye on the old man's boat shoes, their salt-water stainings, sand engravings & mackerel scents, memories of bud & little sandy (wunderkind brothers, grown-up, with fame in their blood faster than lightning (or was it boned-up on speed could they give a rat's about Cathy the dolphin? did they ever come to visit? can you spare a light? sorry, no smoking in Sea World, but if i had a dollar for every youngster who knew her I'd pass my hat to her sobbing old trainer who'd punch it & shout: you killed her! all of you idiots killed her! gaaaaaaah! (although apparently dolphins can commit suicide, the tears in his glass eye never did seem to dry when he described her last moment in the tank & the bubbles as she sank to its fake sandy floor & just . . . stayed there, forever, or at least until her breathing stopped (it, too, neglected, abandoned, no longer just living in that world full of wonder, let alone flying there under ( . . . ah, under the sea a slave to its glinting theme-song death march: no-one you (no-one you see (is smarter than (smarter than she, she, she, she . . .