The Cries of Gulls
by Davide Trame


Morning beach.
The sun among broken clouds.
The empty boat moored to the pier,
rocked in the waves,
in the tapestry of passing.
The clothesline twangs,
shirts and sheets flap in the breeze.
Sand, sea, a row of black stones,
the beginning is a stretch
of fingers you can’t frame
that just brush you and wait
dispelling pressure, enjoying space.
I only want to wake up
to this loitering call of outlines,
this rustling choir of present distances.






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