think it's
cute, it's sex,
it's the same dance we've all

been dancing all
week, two white gulls
whirring like a broken rotor down

to the grassy
sand between the
boardwalk and SNAK SHAK (can you see us

now?): they lift,
whirl, flop back,
and someone takes a shot with her iPhone.

Now they go
beak to beak, when one
overlaps the other with a wing. We need a cold drink

who can't help watching,
as the one with
the wing seems to kiss the other

and pairs of us
lean closer
in our basted skin and island flip-flops.

But now the beak digs in,
pinching down
the other's gullet, and they turn deeper

eye to eye
and stand there—less mating than
murder—as we turn, too, who

watch in pairs (the
waves, the blood ... ), then
look away alone.