There is no rush in it
no hurry in the ceaselessness
but neither restlessness
not a going to
just a movement
as to be stillness
as to be the gull
that hangs overhead
watching on whitefeathered wings
the gull I would be
carried in the cloud
of tumbling spume
in the ceaseless
the being
the careless
the rise and crashing fall
as to be breath
breath itself.

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