The ribs of a seagull and the eastern view

There's a window over the eastern sea,
With an ivory sill and a blue tile arch.
There's a window in the eastern wall,
Where I've hung your feet in the air to dry.

There's a mosaic curling with missing bits,
And the sea is rolling in with a salty sigh.
Where the feathers scatter in the foam beneath,
And your claws are rattling on the strings above.

With an ivory knife and a cunning smile,
And a splayed-open belly to find the tile.
I've prised open your ribs to find your heart,
And the indigo patterns from the window arch.