WHITER than the crust left by the tide, we are stung by the hurled sand and the broken shells. We no longer sleep in the wind -- we awoke and fled through the city gate. Tear -- tear us an altar, tug at the cliff-boulders, pile them with the rough stones -- we no longer sleep in the wind, propitiate us. Chant in a wail that never halts, pace a circle and pay tribute with a song. When the roar of a dropped wave breaks into it, pour meted words of sea-hawks and gulls and sea-birds that cry discords. |