Gull on Asphalt
it started with a crack of light,

a wet push into the cold,
and the sky—always the sky—

waiting to swallow you whole.
you learned fast.


claws on stone,
wings slicing the wind like knives.
you laughed at gravity,
but sickness hit like a sudden storm,
a sharp crack in the clear sky,
leaving you stunned, spiraling,
ground rushing up too fast to fight.


one day the wind felt heavier,

the horizon farther.
and then—this.


blood on the pavement,

feathers bent wrong,

the sky doesn’t even care.

Portland, Maine

Stretched skin against the abyssal black,
stitched by unseen hands,
tensions hum in silence,

holding stories of wind and weight.

The light grazes its surface,
a quilt of impermanence,
bound in fragility,
defiant against the void.

Portsmouth, New Hampshire

The radios sit, Bakelite husks,
Colors dulled by decades of light—
Red, green, blue, once vivid enough
To brighten rooms that are empty now.

Time hums inside them still,
The slow, indifferent tick of hands
Marking minutes that carried news,
Ballroom songs, the war’s end.

Music spilled out in tidy portions,
Tuned to the shape of ordinary lives.
Now, they gather dust on shelves,
Perfect and mute, outliving us all.

Waltham, Massachusetts

The slats—
angled ribs
against the night,

light drips through
like water slipping
between fingers.

Inside—
a chair, red,
a gesture of waiting.

Above it all,
the building listens,
holding its breath.

Brookline, Massachusetts