look, she said, and a dead gull on a wave
is this the nine o'clock tide from the west,
i mused, is this where we all end
her eyes were grey and froth blew over
the long gone bird in that salty grip
look, she said again, and dead men swam
like capricorns chasing the dusk.
is this the west on a wave, i asked,
and the clouds in her eyes parted
as a wind swept her hair up
in the nine o'clock kiss
before putting our true selves to sleep.