The Gulls

inch closer and closer to my towel
and pretend they aren't looking.
Mom and Dad are down by the water.
I am eight and control everything
with my eyelids.
One, two, three gulls.
I turn them into styrofoam.
The transformation is gradual
and I can start it over by looking down
then up. I control everything with my eyelids.
With my eyes closed
I feel that the sun has a cancer.
With my eyes closed
I can hear when the gulls are mostly styrofoam
because their cries
become clotted
and then they fill up with quiet.

Copyright © 2007 Eric Burger All rights reserved
from Passages North
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission