Aerialist

          look the snow is like us,
tide-metal bell flung open

to ocean. No farther
          says the chamber with trees
filigreed fast to its edges.

Coal-fat in winter, a prayer that burns
          when inverted. Oh please
says the fire in the trees.

The story streams

from gull to gull,
          each beak a clear carrier,
what happens nowhere

to be found there.
          Nowhere to be found.
Overcast gull. Eyes flying

into the noise,
          the lead silhouette.