I Watch A Seagull Cling

to threads of a frigid sky
above strip mall lot,
white epaulet on sun’s
shoulders, too delicate for
its position in the scheme
of present imagination. 

I toil at a crossword
puzzle, where letter smudges
are worked into reason
by a devious hand —
clues the ghosts of
how we dispense words.

The blue below the seagull
belongs in another place —
where cod run deep
and mountains are hardly
teenagers — brash and
harsh, barely brushed by age.

I watch a seagull cling
and emulate.