Our window holds the river
while the ripples float downstream,
wild with seagulls, while the glass
holds our image in a foggy mirage.
We free two foolish paper planes,
a pair of gulls above the water,
half watching as their flight sets down,
for nothing really matters when it ends.
Through the window I can trace
spirals of gulls that rise
skywards, vanishing like ripples,
becoming scavengers of our time.
Cleaving through their feathering,
our image vanishes and I can
hardly watch such messages disappear,
though nothing really matters when it ends.
I wonder why we had to leave,
unmooring like two boats mid-stream.
Even gulls set sail without a reason,
free birds on their own journeys,
yet floating heavy on my mind,
winged things that must at last alight.
Nothing descends without a gravity,
and nothing really matters when it ends.