The wind sleepers  - (H. D. Doolittle)

Whiter 
than the crust 
left by the tide, 
we are stung by the hurled sand 
and the broken shells.

We no longer sleep 
in the wind 
we awoke and fled 
through the city gate.

Tear 
tear us an altar, 
tug at the cliff-boulders, 
pile them with the rough stones 
we no longer 
sleep in the wind, 
propitiate us.

Chant in a wail 
that never halts, 
pace a circle and pay tribute 
with a song.

When the roar of a dropped wave 
breaks into it, 
pour meted words 
of sea-hawks and gulls 
and sea-birds that cry 
discords.