Blackgull
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
Wrought
The triple-point
Wax netted
Captured calls cool
In a jar
When burned,
The blackgull calls
Cry again
It’s
Pimpernickel fir
It’s
Balsam harvest
It’s
Cold fire and hot ice
It’s
Lightning and spice
It’s the sight
Of scattered L.E.D.s
The breaking friction
Of blackgull calls
Consume Reality! 