The morning wakes me as a broken door vibrating on its
hinges.
We are drifting out to sea this morning. I
can barely feel the motion of the boat as it rocks me.
I must be a gull, sitting on the mast,
else why would I be so high above the world?
Yes.
I see everything down there-
children tucked, sleeping, into the waves,
their heads nestled in foam.
                                AND I DON'T LIKE THE WAVES THEY
                                DISTINCTLY SAY THINGS
                                AGAINST ME.
The wind is blowing my feathers. How good
that feels. If the wind
had blown my feathers, I would
never have cried
when the waves spoke 
that way-
taking my brother away, when he dove in and never came
back.
                                it was because he loved the seashells
                                too much
                                i know
                                and broke water foams in my hair
                                in its new color - the color of my wing
Why don't we hear the fog-horns today?
                                IF I AM TO SIT HERE ALL DAY I MUST
                                HAVE SOMETHING TO LISTEN TO.
The waves have torn the sleeping children to bits. I
see them scattered on the crests now.
There - an arm floated by.
                                leave me alone, i have not hurt you
                                stop pulling on my wings,
                                my beak, DON'T YOU HEAR STOP IT.
There is nothing more horrible than hands
like ancient crabs, pulling at one. And they cannot
hear because they have no ears.
                                i have no ears.
I am a gull. Birds have no ears. I cannot hear
Them
or anyone.
The fingers on the dismembered arm, floating
in the waves,
can point and make signs,
but I will not hear
the waves
telling the fingers odious things about me.
I will not watch their obsceneties
pointing to the bottom where the children are buried;
where he is buried;
where I am buried.

Slam the door as often as you like - you will 
not wake me.
I am a gull
sitting on a mast, and I feel the ocean rocking
because I can hear nothing
but silent voices the wind carries from the past -
                                gently rocking.
The ocean is as still as a newly made bed,
rocking.