and straightening, like reeds. It has been
everywhere. The waves
sidling up the shore are strung with it.
If I bend I will spill
a great blaze.
Gulls, the cry
of nights hung out to whiten. Sand,
what of the sun has slowed. Wind,
what has already happened
remembering us. There is no such thing
as solitude, though we
are what comes of it.
from Reservations, selected in Interglacial