Unsure where a walk down Town
Beach would lead but letting it, after the release
in the car. Coming
across a dead gull, I lie by it,
beak right, prone mirror,
feel pull and constriction from
a still place, gesterior
resistance to pose,
resistance to the habit of moving.
I give to the structure
the pulse and bind of the bird,
in a line between us
protect it from me,
redistributed debris, mind tuned
to the logic of living,
shells I have offered my friends,
projects of semen
—before two approach from the west.
the gull and the spine. They may see
the holes of my knees
lifting / kneeling /
squatting. Now walking east.
A headache comes on like a small song.
Too Cold for Singing
Small angels in the hollybush,
dim-witted but quick
for berries, single-pointed and warm.
They are sharing a word, bright
as god’s knees. Force, force,
the blight it takes to crack
into a redflesh, juice splatter
at the neck and breast, thickthroated
with pulp. These days,
it is a green scrim
or a white scrim, both
rerunning with dark. Fatherangel
gathers in his hands for a feast: