the seagull investigates what might be food, thrusts its beak

             against something white and buried up to its neck. on coney island

in january, no one drops scraps. i watch it dig, strike gold –

             styrofoam shaped like bread. when all you have is hunger,

everything looks like rescue. desire exposed and declared impossible,

             it turns away. sand frostbitten, my hands empty

as the birds’ stomachs. with only one real home, the seagull chose

             to stay this winter. i watch it return. as if coming back

could make it satiate. i’ve been trying not to make something of everything

             i witness, but the seagull tries to feed itself

with polystyrene, persistent in its returning. after we collapse,

             i keep reaching out, too dazzled to avert my eyes. really, i am chasing

more time. more time with you. the times tells me: to stay in

             love, turn towards each other. my parents failed, occupied with turning

away. my parents tried again, turning back into each other.

             as long as someone looks back, a cup could still be food.

i lean towards you with a new york hunger. my parents had years

             to fail and fail. we came apart in weeks. on the way back to bushwick

the subway window condenses in kisses. as it clears i beg it: hot breath,

             linger. please.