Weird Prayers

I address the terns. Really,

I address my own hand, curled into a horn.

I tip it up. I say

I am caught floor-side of the trapeze net.

For the flightless, there is very little

satisfaction. The birds practice

their routine, performing as black bits

in a sink after a man has shaved.

The sky plays the sink. Here, as always,

the beach is littered with stupid things. Empty water

bottles. Shells of such delicate intricacy,

they make me feel like dieting. Most of the time I don’t

notice though, because there’s something distracting

about my phone. Let me up with u birds!

is a text message

I send up into the sky. I can’t

help it: what a flimsy little voice

I have.