No Wonder

by Steve Klepetar

No wonder gulls
have folded their white

wings and eaten the silence
of night. Everywhere

this dance concludes, crabs
and their followers huddled

in flowering weeds, sky
turns purple and cold

and all wailing fades
to smoke and rain and silver

chains binding naked arms.
Little wonder that all remain

when crickets turn away
from dawn and everything

studied turns brown
and rotten and disappears.

Professors of water
no longer see how barn

owls preach their sermons
in the rain. Perched on gray

rocks, they stare out
to sea where waves skip

and plow, some shivery
painting on a museum

wall, a ship tossed
in the foreground, maybe

a mast torn down, white
splash of sail stabbing the eye

near bruised water
broken by troubled wind.

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