inclined –

blistering with intention, the

gull spikes hard lines in an arctic sky --

it lists toward oblivion -- shafts of light

submerged and then forgotten

beneath its wing; how

is it that in

bonfires we pursue weathered silences

glossed over with surefooted ire? -- Is

it an iron-bodice that you wear?

(Where

are the spent occasions of your arrival?)

Quick to judge heroics

for the lame; nighttime terrors

holding firm -- how

can we bear

it all with our thin-boned bodies

upturned in the breeze?

*