This is a poem by James Croal Jackson.
Seagulls scatter where I stare
myself into the ocean, whose blue
reflects whoever’s gaze it
catches, growing stuck in the
mind’s red door humming self-
significance. The black scar
of sky overlooks this– summer’s
paint dripping onto the canvas
of the next, a bell ringing
after class, learning the
reverberations of its own
footsteps shuffling.
James Croal Jackson swore he’d never work in film again after leaving L.A. He has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and has poems in Columbia Journal, Rattle, and Hobart. He edits The Mantle. Currently, he works in the film industry in Pittsburgh, PA.
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