Lesbian lovers. Outside the Casino, Sandy Bay. October 2012. I like seagulls. A lot of people don't, but I do. Some people think gulls are foolish. Native Americans thought that gulls were tricksters. Richard Bach thought that they were clumsy metaphors for the patently obvious. I dunno. I like 'em. So did Chekhov. The Seagull , by Norman Dubie Chekhov, at Yalta A winter evening at the cottage by the bay, And I sat in the black and gold of the dead garden Wrapped in blankets, eating my sister’s suet pudding. The fountain was wrapped in dirty straw and Just below my property in the old Tartar cemetery There was a small funeral in progress: the widow Is wearing a purple shawl, the children are bare around The shoulders and the girls are wearing orange petals At their throats. The ashen white beards of the men Are like immaculate vests from this distance. There is nothing more intolerable than suet pudding, Unless it is the visitors. The drunken visitors ...