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.