3
My days are burned inside of hollow mornings,
With only skins of things
To pull and trim,
With seagulls
On the bay shore yawning,
And silent phone calls bursting loud with rings.
My nights misplaced,
My evenings still are burning,
With seagulls throwing shells from heights
To crack.
When will my lowest tide of wreck and yearning
Break on the edge
Between my luck and lack?
How do you sense the signals of my worry?
How do I know that this is you
Who rings?
When will this silence of your wired dry throat
Crack in its shell
Falling till now from spring?
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