By Alexis Kirke

gulls like white wasps
swarm a black canvas
soon the sun is a mist
on the ocean's photography.


he said:
"_we_ are seagulls" and
"feeling your fingernail
slipping between

the two white feathers
just near my triangle-bony
like-shoulder, is lovely". I rub
in and out and my fingertip

patterns catch ends of the
fibres that make up his wings.
Then I slip my hand in, up to my
wrist, so his wing bone encircles

it. Feel the stroke of the down
on my whitening forearm.

Now winter approaches - and
wings hit the sea like a

tiger's fur rises in
winds of good odours - he's
landing himself between ripples
of Gulf streams that flow

in a vein through my underarm,
where his finger slips around
searching like digging a hole
in an animal


wings are an engram, a seagull
that shoots itself over a page.
wings, are their own DNA

they are gulls in themselves,
store a pattern of flight
from spine to splice.

Wings are Down, fill up a cover
where hot bars of morning
are focused by curtain-cracks
over the bed:

the rush of the sun rising
over a city too hot for seagulls.


He said
"Your throat and your mouth
were an inside-out syringe
injecting your stomach with
white birds."


The complexification of gulls
has two parts. Gulls are vectors -
constantly turning and merging
in subspaces of their own choice.

The real part is flying in heaven;
and out on the cliffs
the imaginary part is catching its
fish with the flock.

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