Remember the imperial jet eye
of the seagull as it turns its head
and its winter white beak makes a brief cleft
in the feathers along its shoulder
that look like slate but part into ruffles
like a stray wing of cloud that has sprung
the violent heart and kite-orange feet
of a bird whose stern purpose is to light
on this lamppost for a moment but depart
without delay the way it came before
we ground-bound onlookers lining the cement
benches can do more than meet its astral glance.
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