BAR HARBOR JANUARY

By Kirby Wright

Gulls fly rough circles
As if nursing frostbite.
White floats bob like sails
Marking traps in Frenchman’s Bay.
Snow carpets a cement walkway
Leading down to the sea.
Truck parks at end of wharf.
Poles bait the corrugated water.
I sniff salmon in the lobby.
Low tide exposes
A land bridge between
Shore and Bar Island.
Two shadows search prizes
On the stone-and-seaweed shore
Below the hotel.
They stone the blue-green water.
Mortality nibbles my elbow.
Drag my carcass out
Into the cold night
When it snows hard
And the frigid inches
Pile to form white walls.
Read my verse out loud—
Laugh me off the planet
From your warm room with tea.