i can hear the long lonesome call
of the seagull, as it feels a lot like
those lovely holy boxcar diners set
back, dug deep into the weeds of jersey.
they sit like jack-o-lanterns in the lobby,
dazed and dreamy, some of them even
precious and pretty, and can't help but
to feel a certain amount of affinity of subtle
magical mystery, like the ravishing girls
from sicily when you wait at dawn at some
wind-swept cafe for the ferry, reflective and
redeemed, brain-dead and brooding; dead
dogs passed out beneath the palm trees, sighing
solemnly, and a sea sounding a little something like
...so it seems, so it seems, so it seems, so it seems.