Only gulls should wheel this way, or herons,
platinum wings to dip and split the surf:
blades to invade melon rind in August,
excavate crisp nectar from below.
But this one trails its tips through sand,
glides like the heave of stone sails
shaken out by monumental breeze,
alternating craggy loft and slack
while I measure out the instant for the jump.
The dragon’s luck bests my own.
Steed to wing to silica air,
I’m on the dunes again,
my one sense left the broil
of calf and thigh, the jab
of sandy tines across my knees
as I roll along the shadow.
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