Lily Logan Brown
Smaller Gulls Before
I want the tree a mile up to shake
its blond leaves to the pavement.
From my spot I think it odd that birds
don’t shit on us more often.
We’re right here ruining the sand.
I too further the obesity of gulls.
For years I’ve let them steal
my sandwiches and sealing wax.
That with which we stamp our selves
we stamp with our selves.
Sink of emblem in hot wax.
Lies that swap stories with heart.
I Could not Stop Closing
I thought bamboo and then I thought tall bamboo.
I thought: quiet bamboo sex, which I had heard
before: below my bedroom window
on the big island. Tonight, the day almost dead,
creaks conversing revealed themselves as eucalyptus.
I walked in darkness beneath their leaves.
I came out from under
and singing gave way to light.
I can’t decide: lower the shade,
install a curtain, shroud the bed in gauze?
Last I opened was in New York City.
I could not stop closing. I said
I will not walk the streets.
Will not be your
let me hold you.
Will not meet your mouth.
I want the space between table and wall,
tree that either loses its leaves or does not,
wave that will not give its shape to another.
Bluebell is also known
as wood hyacinth.
All of us come apart.