The Gulls Never Stop Crying

The Gulls Never Stop Crying

Somewhere someone has always just died.
But we are alive and wet with the night.

I tell you summer belongs to us and these wild
roses beading the moonlight into fragrant dew.

Can’t we leave sunlight to other people’s disasters,
to torn metal, gunfire, taps played on keyboards?

But no, the gulls never stop crying, their wings
spread wide, white, stained by the stars.

The waves are salt and warm and insistent; but
the foam tastes of all of us, our history, our roses.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Capitalism, Corporate Capitalism, Cosmology, Death, Epistemology, Ghazal, Gulls, Harbour, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Political Commentary, Roses, Social Commentary, Summer, The Moon, The Sea, War, Wild roses and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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