I address the terns. Really,
I address my own hand, curled into a horn.
I tip it up. I say
I am caught floor-side of the trapeze net.
For the flightless, there is very little
satisfaction. The birds practice
their routine, performing as black bits
in a sink after a man has shaved.
The sky plays the sink. Here, as always,
the beach is littered with stupid things. Empty water
bottles. Shells of such delicate intricacy,
they make me feel like dieting. Most of the time I don’t
notice though, because there’s something distracting
about my phone. Let me up with u birds!
is a text message
I send up into the sky. I can’t
help it: what a flimsy little voice