Alice BELL

GULL

You casual letter m. You bit of news,
We want to have our fingers smudged with you,
To flip and press them into that white page,
That high-borne cloud. We finger-paint, contain
The soul of flight in split parabolas,
We flip the morning news into a wind
Of time on time on time, in that fast stain
Perceiving something of your daily fuss,
Your blustering; perhaps even that keen
Above the sea rocks, that remote lament.
You stimulate us, like some failed machine
Collapsing, some obscure accident,
And we reel through the paper, scan the sea.
We want your danger. Your strange tragedies.

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