years from now
i sit on a wooden, creaky dock
too much space between the boards
and i hear your troubled cry
calm with a tinge of the blues
your soul in solid form
bursting from your beak slowly
and running
without legs
through the brightening hours
of an August morning
i have a cry like yours
i think to myself
body stretched over peeling paint
as i remove layers of clothing
and let the sun's golden palms
color my tears
