The Seagulls of Belleville

The seagulls 

of Belleville 

sing elegies.

They fly further 

and further distances

for food. 

While the beasts 

of the high street 

palm strawberries, 

piles of 

pomegranates 

perfect 

red tomatoes. 

You can break 

their skin 

for a piece 

of paper, 

a passing coin. 

Birds die here. 

In the grey desert, 

the naturalist 

wanders,

his eyes bleeding 

out the light 

from his mind. 

Until night comes,

nameless 

and familiar, 

and the wounded 

limp into the open

like roaches. 

There is no memory

to these places, 

they turn like doors.

No groves 

where songs may grow.

In the traffic of desire,

each place is

destroyed, 

wiped new again 

for the next 

to smoke it. 

Mewing 

in the blue morning,

I search 

for wet hydrangeas.

Like seagulls, 

I too want to know 

where the red fruit gathers,

wild and untouched.