The Seagull Reader The book of poetry didn't teach her anything. It didn't teach her the curve of her l's or rhythm without rhyme. The rules and regulations didn't grab her, nor did the wonderfully structured stanzas. Instead, she lifted each verse off the page and suspended them in the air looking under, into each loop and line break for a way out. The book of poetry was about an inch thick, the fifty-minute minute sessions of what she was suppose to be doing, taught her how to write. You cannot be who you are without exploring each face. Poking and pecking at the salty-wet torn scraps, she took a piece with her. Beyond the blue-green sea is where she flew spreading her long gray wings and stretching her webbed-feet she carried her own stout body, Yet she couldn't find the words to tell you.