To follow the wing of a herring gull

            is a meditation on balance
an invisible string links lead weight to scale

feather to foot            to my eye
the gull hops on one leg      leans to the right

            extends a wing but doesn’t fly
beak humbled on breast on clawed toe

on sand and rock            on my left forefinger
            fishing hooks catch on everything
Wind and waves bring onto the fringing reef

            every tangled and tethered
strangled thing      dead-eyed      belly up

the beach is a white-washed tomb
beautiful on the outside      on the inside

      full of bones of the dead    and the hobbled
bird    throat narrowed by nylon       a fisherman’s

                     careless catch
falls limp on the grass       like an old toy

fashioned from a white feather boa
and I am the puppeteer        unpack every wire

            every string      trying to make him dance.