I pass

down whcre the Spider-mouthed sea gocs
where the gulls and the trees turn,

to the mound

and the washed drop,

to the sudden explosion of sky

over the reed hands,

touching thc conch shells

in the sea's warm Loam.

High, ungained,

straincod on the edge of breathing,

almost alone,

belonging to the air, and the black turn of the
to the wind in it's ery,

and the peeled moon rind rocking,

ae belong.

sca,

shirley wright