The white gull’s wing on white sky—
The wing beats not like the heart,
A slanting tip, a suggestion of air.
This silent air filled with wave noise,
The noisy waves filled with air—as here.
Look: this is the sound of transgression.
I mark the gull, the gull marks me.
Each distinction in succession
Disappears, and the I inhale the waves,
The sky, the intimate space of the horizon
As if it were a skill and not my nature.
