Wide as whiteness I am spun—year over year,
  sun after sun—unseeing land, sinking paper-sheer
    wings on white air, growing strange in the shifting
      webs that whistle me, warm and flat, away, unhinged
        from home I am far-flung. Under is nothing firm,
          only the rolling belly and silver ones in it who squirm
            featherless, my feast. Sleep is brief on the rolling,
              the webs whistle me endless, caracoling, and I long
                for my rut-lust to swell, out-wail the webs and riff
              me home to wallow in the belly-damp dark of cliffs.