I finished my swim
and climbed the bluff to the shack.
Seagulls were crying.
At the door I hear I'm wrong:
my two friends are making love.
You almost see it:
stung by salt in morning light,
that pale skin flushing.
Surf, three hundred metres down,
softly sighing over stone.
From "River Benga: A Pillow Book from Tidnish Bridge, Nova Scotia"
Postscript (Signal Editions)