Dreamers

The leaves hustle and swirl
around the pomp and pearl
of foreign white sandy seashores
like a forgotten flock
of dark dead seagull ghosts
decayed from the sun
and caught in the wild throes
of an invisible tornado.

All this,
drenched in the night's rising darkness
these sad birds begging in litter bins
of blackened sunrises
for no more tin can tomorrows
throwing desire to the salty wind
with stunted half living breaths
and blowing away
the tin can yesterdays.