Seagulls

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The sea gulls freeze in the air
floating, cut from silk and hung on a thread
just below the clouds that are strapped to the sky
milky white and liquid
the sharp bird beaks cutting a line
as they float like words above me

I can see my breath crystallize in the morning air
and still smell the ocean,
and feel the salt stick to my palms
even all the way up here
over the car exhaust,
and dog shit.

I can still hear the waves, and the roll of broken shells
cracking into each other
over the sharp staccato of Chinese
and the screaming brakes of the subway.

Spring is coming,
tunneling through the ground
upsetting the graves,
overturning the rotten wood and bones of the dead
like a giant nimble worm
blind and intuitive
stretching and contracting in the determination of yearly renewal.
I can hear her rumble,
I can hear her coming.

And so can the gulls,
and that is why they are floating.