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Poem	Where the sea gulls sleep or indeed where they fly Is a place of different traffic. Although I Consider the fishing bay (where I see them dip and curve And purely glide) a place that weakens the nerve Of will, and closes my eyes, as they should not be (They should burn like the street-light all night quietly, So that whatever is present will be known to me), Nevertheless the gulls and the imagination Of where they sleep, which comes to creation In strict shape and color, from their dallying Their wings slowly, and suddenly rallying Over, up, down the arabesque of descent, Is an old act enacted, my fabulous intent When I skated, afraid of policemen, five years old, In the winter sunset, sorrowful and cold, Hardly attained to thought, but old enough to know Such grace, so self-contained, was the best escape to know.
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