the jutter

I jut
suddenly
forth into the sky
across the same stretch I always,
over and out above
the sea
washing in beneath me
in ever-eroding crash
and spray, in waves
eating waves.
They are carving for me
a feather-bed
wherein one day I will lay
my dashing and broken head. But

for now, I jut. Irrevocably.
Immutably moved by my inward
thrust into outward hold,
immovably held
in the negative space
that surrounds my must,
my need, my savagely
cutting jib - and they say

I strut!

Don't believe one
lying word
of it.

I jut.
And jut.
And jut and jut
and just as if carved
from living rock, living ever since
in a state of suspense, surprise
and a start of sudden
continual shock,

I am giving myself
in habitual pose
like an innocent cock
in a doodle of dithering fret
and sketch, of constantly weaving
background noise. I stick out bright
into ratio, calling signal to me

in a static grace of dynamic poise.