The gulls fly the fog away
When we’ve learned how to grieve
What is not there – when it is
And what we grieve is not the loss
But what we did or didn’t do –
Impossible to know, like the morning sun
The birds fly through, free to be on guard
On the turrets of the city jail and overhead
Where the mountain where it’s always clear appears at last.
There are rules, even on a sunny day –
The grids we never see, except when we close our eyes
To remember what doesn’t exist, and what does.
