From the Pier:
The seagull seen from above
at the same angle as the sun
casts no shadow on the sand.
Edges traced, wing shape limned
in black perhaps; perhaps imagined.
From its shadow’s (imagined) eye,
the shade might seem to cast the sun,
as if experience could make time run,
or endings make beginnings: the shore
make the sea, or the body the soul.
From the Garden:
By the silken light of the slanting
the goldfinch stands on the rim
of his world, otherwise known
as the birdbath. Gleams thrown
back and forth, thrown out
from water and yellow feathers
and the source of all this light
has left the scene: Which shines?
That sun, fading, is forgotten.