---

     A beak of gull is quick


     to pluck the teeth of soaking dead.


     No boat.  That muddy calm seeps down the northern hills.


     The feather creaks on the bone torn beach and I


     splash in the footprints left on the rock.


     That cloud.


                             .


     Red tideline on my skin and the wings


     exploding past the surf


     point to the sweetness bone fish know.


     Naked clatter of shells in whirlpools


     bleeds the blueness from the air.


     Now.  It seems.  Now.


                             .


     That voice.  Grey surf.  Shoulders of water.


     Each grain stirs


     a sudden angel


     in the drowning sky.