Poems by Jesse Breite

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by Jesse Breite

From Canary Spring 2016

Jesse lives where Peachtree Creek breaks off from the Chattahoochee. A few times a year, he drives down to Tybee Island, just outside Savannah, Georgia, to admire the coastal landscapes.

On a spring morning, I roost on a wood porch
with peeled paint-flecks
stuck to my bare feet and overlook the Atlantic coast.
Coffee articulates my veins
and sharpens my awareness of seagulls moving
circulatory in the coastal air.
Blown up a chute, each gull takes the breeze slow
and full in its breast
and wings with a machinic flap, easy-up to the volta
before plunging into streaks
between thing and thought, feather and fraught
like the careful rise of Icarus,
and yes, the tumbling, commonplace fall, but here, now,
this motion eloquently iterating.
No, not as fast as a falcon, not as keen as an angel, but
as clear and easy as any
human mind, body, soul mistaking over and over again:
This is likely to fail.
This is likely to be killed by something faster, stronger.
This is likely you—
your incredibly common, beautiful, and tragic story.

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