The children of sooty gulls, in a scrape of pink coral,
		nestle.
The curlew and the heron, in the dusk, in the salt-soaked mangroves,
		wait.
Eagles rise and ascend and, for the death of fish,
		plunge.

Red circles of ochre mark the target.

It might be herbs. Some dill or thyme for lunch.
Not what you say. It’s grass—some lawn somewhere
Is missing some. You look! I need to eat.

Two hours? Too long. Too much to bear
	Of sapid bites of brick.
No mouthing laughs before your time.
	At home is bread. Not here.

No scene will bring a better view,
	No click of finger’s push.
No magic light in genie’s hand.
	Inhale the life you have!

It’s time for shows that mean a lot.
	Not ballyhoo or bacon rind
Or stupid dreams. But golden words
	That lift and chase away our fears.

My picture was all wrong. So daft!
	My breath it made me dizzy mad!
I fell asleep and dreamed of cakes
	With jam so sweet I cried for more.

Hills and the sea that encircle the city
In steeps of black pines bowed by the sweep
Of the black stream and the blow of the ocean.

Make way with a candle in shade
To a deep-carven grave of the dark gods,
To pray in a day without wake.

Night of the moon of unbroken bamboo
Pours light on the cedar of hills unhewn
Since the dream of the true and the pure.