Hot Twelve O’clock


Biggest and baldest of eagles clutches a lunch

of seagull and screams ugly, muscles up

her black wings in a high V as the mirrored

white chevron hang-glides from her talons.


Hot twelve o’clock allows itself to be fondled,

consoled, by a big cool gust, which has just

blown in through the doors and snatched

from the dining table what had been


a short stack of torn magazine pages –

poems too good to read once and let go –

and transformed it into a small flock

of gleaming dead gulls falling from thermals.


What bird, balcony, branch will catch the black

words on white paper: “Running Scared,”

“The Dog’s Tooth”, “Summer Grace,”

“What I Did With Your Ashes?”