Blackgulls make the
Candle wax
That’s burned through
By the jar

They caw and cry
When storms at sea
Light the skies
Like L.E.D.s

It’s their sound
That smells of cold
Fire and hot ice
And powerful spices

They fly on clouds,
Lightning in their eyes
A frictious breakage
They call so loud

A storm is brought
Calls like wind
Are artfully

The triple-point
Wax netted
Captured calls cool
In a jar

When burned,
The blackgull calls
Cry again

Pimpernickel fir
Balsam harvest

Cold fire and hot ice
Lightning and spice

It’s the sight
Of scattered L.E.D.s
The breaking friction
Of blackgull calls

Published by Jake Thomas Shaw

Concerned with memory, currency, and destiny, I strive to capture each one as they happen. Join me and consume reality! Radio Reality. City!

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