Coney Island

Over the photograph of the whole beach (the abandoned amusement park behind), a lonely bird.

The next photograph shows the bird, white and black, flying, spread wings, such a seabird, a postcard of a living creature.

My friend shows me the photograph, one he took knowing I’d see it, knowing I’d know what the bird,

its colours, the closed beak mean, its shape cut against the grey sky, all the bloody melancholy we do share.