Poem: Seagull

 

Seagull

 

i dig at my temples

to staunch the rooty pain,

quell its underworld

of urgent blue rills.

 

my clawful fingers meet the clear truth:

life is only bone,

a sugarcoated teapot

roiled by spat and fuss.

 

this skull of mine.

this sad/angry/blithe tilt-a-whirl

fickle with fancy

and numb pleasures.

 

this mountain range

cursed by the tectonics

of a single scrunched

thundering forehead.

 

i wander somehow

without method

until the wind lashes my ears

to rebuke the flesh.

 

high above, 

a lone wingspan sheers to rise,

nimble across a sky of pulpits

gloomed by dark.

 

not an angel,

still the gull rides meek,

a genuflection of grace

among so many liturgies

proclaimed and shattered.

 

 

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