I’m a gull on a spar —so much sea
but much less far
my perch is so unsteady
I wonder what my bearings are
roll and sway and pitch,
the other gull-calls I am hearing,
the yaw as ship slides into ditch of trough—
this captain must be drunk the way he’s steering
or the helmsman is asleep, his compass eye is off,
the sluggish rudder’s answer is as drawn-out as a stutter
and I’m clinging to this spar like baby to its mother
as sun descends wind whistles, or is singing,
moon is coming up —but the image in that mirror,
is that me or is that other?
Jim Culleny, 6/24/20
Blink 