Outer Banks (II)

This isn't the end but there's no going farther.
The sea breathes,
a swirl of oil in the water like a need for sleep.

Fetal seaweed, glintless seaglass,
a seagull wrecked in a dune like a plane.
The living cry out as they flee.

What remains?
One shell the waves won't take.
The intimate distance that it speaks.

Copyright © 2003 Christian Wiman All rights reserved
from 32 Poems
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission