Hearts break when the loon calls -- Part 2

I live near the beach.

We don’t have loons,
loons live in frigid places like
Canada and Wisconsin;
we have seagulls.

Seagulls screech.
They scream.
They don’t haunt your fucking soul.
They make you run for cover.

I like action better.

So the cool night dream
with ashes and frogsong
fades to seagulls on
a hot beach

Those fuckers are funny
gross
terrifying
and they shit on

everything

with a sort of evil pizzazz.

The seagulls have gone
full kamikaze at us
to get the picnic basket
we left open.

I slither in your lap
trying not to get sand in
my ass as we hold a towel over
our heads against
the squawking torrent from outside.

I shriek in not-unfeigned terror,
and you drag me
firmly against you
with one hand

your other hand squishes in
some unimportant
chunk of
offal I dug out of
my chest to show you

again

Goddamn.

Again.

We throw the sandwiches
across the shore,
hoping the mass of flying
shitting rats-with-wings
stops pecking at our heads,
and laugh

and laugh,
and I whisper bad deeds
and soft words
against your lips

Every writer to ever
pick her own ass and
call it art has pontificated
about dreams.

And I am not so special.

I will tell you truly.
In this dream, you’re real,
and I’m fucking smitten.

I don’t have an eidetic memory.

When here,
I suffer from
amnesia of everything
but the surety
of your exhalations on my mouth.