Sunday, August 4, 2013


If it weren’t for that
horrible screech, I might
begin to envy gulls:
their tiny brains, clear eyes,
those feathers of ash, and those
hollow bones; that flesh
so rich in fat it floats
effortlessly in water,
air, above fires; the way
they twist and turn around
the local siroccos rising
flames create for them.
If only they’d shut up.
I really do admire
their special spiral flight
pattern (patterned after
Yeats’s infamous
gyres, I suppose)
sustained by next to nothing—
the minimum of toil—
pure buoyancy—like music—
the sweetest morsel of
humanity; nourishment
picked up on the sly from some
colossal black barge
passing out to sea,
full of rotting garbage.

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