The boats in the harbor flirt with the pilings, their sails have trapped nothing and are flaccid, the gulls scream at the masts, scream while they lift their spindly legs and tiny feet escaping the noiselessness.
I sit with the sun as it bursts and the cirrus clouds, like cotton, are filled with blood or tears, or some brutal combination of both, as the needles poke through the house and the sun is pushed out.
trying to work with imagery, but I can't seem to get it. my images are routine, but there is something lonely about boats and gulls and the sun, maybe that's why everybody writes about it,Β Β and I'm trying to capture it but can't get it right.