A bone-white gull slides as
if it’s wearing socks on hardwood
floors back & forth in the air
passing my window like Tom Cruise
in that movie. Streets deserted
but it doesn’t stop, eyes wild & yellow
with what—happiness?
Does a bird feel joy? Does it need to
be seen feeling . . . to feel? Maybe
when wind expands & contracts
like breath inside the landbound
the word means something different
to be able to rest on it
lie down upon itclimb it
fall through it & then catch
a rung—there
that it’s feeling without skin to hold it in
maybe simply becoming a sail for joy
blown wildly across the world
or down the avenues.