Sport 29: Spring 2002
Island Bay
Island Bay
Turn those seven gulls,
rigid on the ragged rock,
to off.
Smear into the sky
all residual birds,
wings first.
Persuade that extrusion
of cloud
to (d)rain,
and suck on the wind
till it's gone.
Pull up the sea
like a giant
velcro strip,
eat the fish,
and sweep away
the floor.
Blow out the sun,
deflate your friend,
and finally,
erase yourself,
leaving only
your eyes,
behind.