The seagull in the wind stays hovering
transfixed by elements, suspended seconds
dripping off her feathers. Look too closely
and it looks like flying—a hoax some ghostly
sheet of wind plays. Wings wide open, she beckons
stasis—waits—intent on recovering
a thought, or something thoughtful. Like the stone
who’s waited here for someone the long years.
A loveseat, something for the gull to paint,
somewhere for the wind to make complaint.
Outlier of the bulwark, it appears
to wade in sand, time measured by the grain.
The seagull cries, You’re sinking slowly, dear.
The stone says nothing, staring at the ocean
the way a camera veers its gaze away
from lovers in the sand, their moans like spray
carried off by the wind. The breakers motion
cruelly to them both: Come here. Come here.