we try to feel how

the feeling bites, like

mosquito blood, into 8 A.M.

Sidewalks, in the cracks

lie shields, where the masses

cross into outer races.

Burnt toast and train tunnels

lost too late, the black shoes

stand at the red light, shuffle

through the yellow, as eyes

lock on to walk signs. Don't

walk mind. We are the

following gulls who have no

paths to soar. we are the

following gulls griping at the

heels of the wind. we try

to feel how the feeling bites.