On a breakwall, the screech of a herring gull.
Sea rolls over stones, grey sand;
each time not the same. The water persists,
offers itself to land, as if it crosses a border;
it retreats, leaves a mark in a different place,
edge not fixed.
The littoral is named, but it is never constant;
just as the call of the gull is not the gull,
its yellow beak is not the origin of squawk.
How a word undoes itself,
unable to extend beyond its logic;
the way that what shifts and moves on earth
is always other than it is at first sight;
language entangles itself,
and in that enmeshment, collapses,
but rather than not being able to explain further,
its fall does just the opposite;
silence opens the way to notice
the sand, the sea, a weathered stone,
as what they are, themselves,
and in situ;
the burden to understand what a stone really is
is lifted, the focus broadened
to see the picture in its unbrokenness.