Flying White

If you want to know
something about this woman,
look into the foggy design
on the edges of paper,
imagine what no longer exists
of the light that was once
a brilliant star,
and you will understand
the empty spaces
that fill me now.

Near the ocean
I walk long against the wind
gathering the bodies of broken shells
who rest in the tentacles of the water’s garden
harvested by so much winter anger.

These corpses cast shadows
of negative space on the gestures
I make with my heart
to see more clearly
as I leave comfort
for the cold truth
to find gulls hovering over waves,
glide as if suspended, searching
never finding the flashing silver
scales of trust.

From this shore
the details of flight
are simple, white
and unpainted as the sky
before the arrival
of the rosy hand of dawn,
confusing the scene
with color.