I throw salt over my left shoulder
into the eye of a stranger. For months we can’t speak
so we go to the shore and our words come
back in the mouths of laughing gulls
who steal a bag of SunChips, the foil packet ripping
a crack in the sky. Crisps and feathers stabbing the sand
around us. To the gulls language is yes yes yes
and celebration cackles, like devil-bean.