The Reading

Where the sea sucks in and out, I am sitting on a moss-inhabited rocks, beneath the grieving birds, in their land of air; fragile with feelings the poets evoke. I hear their blood. The afternoon wears its bragging sky. I am wild with lines that cannot be tamed. Hours later, when I leave, carrying kelp like a garland earned by words, in my several ways of seeing, I arr ive from another world.