Whose Name We Are Not Told

Is it the sea of words makes you
Sick in your gut, sick to the core,
Or is it all these fish you sense,
All the drowned lives that move in them?

Are words real since they have real things
That hide in the deep shades of them
Or are we real since we are things,
And our eyes flash out of the waves?

And who are our beasts of the depths?
The signs or our hosts made of flesh?
Some nights at the rail, it all glows,
And you’re sure you know what you don’t.