In this rhythmic poem, a figure finds his state of mind reflected in the wheeling movements of birds and a briny, rocky seascape
The Gulls
Here, where the gulls speak
of everything I am not,
the tall grasses not yet tall,
the tide out and in repose,
a hint of ocean floor offering
passage, seaweed torn
by time, drowned without
the sea, the briny grooves
of sand suggesting the end
of a day, ruins of rocks
accepting what is foreign
in their midst––the handle
of a kite the flight of a beer,
a dimming dusk brightened
by the red inks of autumn,
of change; of change. Here,
what falls in the distance
falls inside, a heart’s sinking
a gracing of all that’s been
floated––the walks not taken
and the walks not taken far
enough, night’s steady ascent
a quieting of the birds, a
turning down of the voices,
darkness finally holding
the mind; the mind. Here,
the world that keeps saying
No! No! No! is working
the planets into view, into
their ceremony of the infinite,
some space to orbit for
a while, for meteors and stars
to have their ancient utterances
collide and multiply; and
multiply. Here, a man
is neither a man nor a child,
only a body of the unspoken;
the unspoken.