A poem
At the shore on a Monday
seagulls with orange beaks,
fighting against the wind,
whip up and down the line,
a boustrophedon parade—
the waves shoving their way to shore.
Jimmy Eat World’s “Futures” beckons them
to me,
scoring the ever-forward push of all creation.
It is all connected.
It is all connected now.
Whatever reigns over this moment,
I am a witness.
Up in the distance a plane careens toward the horizon,
itself pushing against the wind
to find its place in the future.
It cuts past the clouds
like the waves that topple rocks
flanking the coast.
Men and women who smoke cigarettes walk
to the shore, their exhaust
billowing and dissipating
into the rushing wind;
planes in the air, smoke in the air.
There will always be exhaust,
until there will not be.
Until then:
the horizon,
the remedy,
the birds.
Comments
nice