The gull of Menemsha
hustles tourists
with crazy cawed promises
of understanding
to come if you will just
open your cooler once
on his rocky sand
and allow hypnosis
by sea motion
and clanging salt sound.
Down he comes to swoop
contraband.
An avian crave of Cape Cod chips
arcs away mouth bag-full
to sit on an ancient hull
surviving as the sun dips
deep and candles
the low clouds of dusk.
The gull's smug stare
in this foghorn forlorn light
intercepts
movement,only movement
buoy blind to promise kept
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