I
Hearing gulls brew, we hold
for a whole instant
ocean cupped in our hands;
and watch, in a rusted pot
ocean boil to salt. We have drifted,
like the wood we burn, into strange stances.
We can give: we can take:
but we watch: and our silence,
watching us, gives and takes in our name.
II
Gulls love on opening currents;
and tending fire, we spend much time
hunting fuel, listening to their strange pronouncement.
Can we discover? Can we discover
we are thick in sea water?
And creating, do we know
with the depth of ocean,
how to wrap a body around ourselves?
III
Overhead, gulls continue boiling
around smoke from our driftwood.
Salt forms grainy, dark white.
Minor alchemists, we know
on empty beaches
the toil; and we know
if I taste your salt
I taste oceans closing around.