I was born and grew up in Baltic marshland by zinc-grey breakers that always marched on in twos.
Hence all rhymes, hence that wan flat voice that ripples between them like hair still moist, if it ripples at all.
Propped on a pallid elbow, the helix picks out of them no sea rumble but a clap of canvas, of shutters, of hands, a kettle on the burner, boiling – Lastly, the seagull’s metal cry.

From poem “A Part of Speech”