The shore’s a line 
   of broken speech,

the sea a sensation at
   the edge of things

shaking off excess
   in which seabirds wheel,

needing no one to say
    what they are or aren’t.

The scent of angelica
   could be summer itself

settling on every surface,
   in sky-scrawl, on seagulls

flashing signs that can mean
   whatever you want, the way

that Philistine headdress
   on a Tuscan backroad was

a porcupine caught in
   my headlights. With only

words to look through, I am
   trying to see beyond my life.