Up close the gull trying
to pull its head from the sand
is a star-shaped balloon
its silver side gone grey and white
its struggle just a tug
against gravity
I cannot force anything
to be profound
the dead do not come to me
as cardinals in my dreams
it’s the same car
crashing into other cars
or a woman falling from a cliff
again and again
reliving the same disaster
helpless to stop it
the optometrist tells me
to focus on the tiny house
with a tiny tree
the kind a child would draw
triangle over square
before a house becomes
a complicated thing a machine
blows a puff of air
into my eye
a small violence
I might shatter
at any moment
a tragedy is happening
to someone else.

Lorraine Doran

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