when my hands stop working
they turn inward like claws

everything becomes a chore
longhand an impossible scrawl

something I can’t recognize
can’t read

a busted gull pecks rust flakes in the sleet
on the old iron road into the sea


bad hands

look – no hands

white gull

a white gull wails
on a windy beach
some place in time
if you can call it a beach

I wouldn’t call it a beach
I’d call it

broken stones
on the earth’s bare bones
with icy breakers
that have no home
black icy breakers
on a broken beach
so bruised and broken
bruised and broken

a white gull wails
inside this room
it hovers low
its shadow looms
this bare white room
this lonely room
so bruised and broken
bruised and broken