On the rocky grade, light wept. Its terrain should have lured you. I wore yellow shoes and tripped. In a sill, rain gathered. A palm, towering face, grazed the hotel wall. Through sleep, I was pitched into the canyon, taken from bed by words strung together, and then tossed from the fifth floor. When I crashed, crabs hid in slits between rocks and saw me, brained.
Recoil. Scoop up the postcards, yank back what youve heard. Whats there to pack for the ride home? Invisible nicks (and concealer for eye-circles).
Cormorants, straight shot, point north and you turn east for the quick, inland route. I dont ask its crazy to stay on the coast, black birds flapping alongside and telling the truth about where were headed: a thin pass where the roads tin rail keeps us upright.
Birthed into sunshine, warmth on her heads crown. The sun slides down and she doesnt miss it. A man boards an airplane and mist descends. Mist turns to fog and shes sure hell return: someone down there wants him to come back.
California is for the easily fooled. He squints and loses sight of her. He mistakes whats below for a wasteland: uneven heights, desolate. Dusk traffic lights thicken, form poison through the basins veins.
Her heaven is a drought. Stucco house in a pocket of smog, tough calla lilies, smoke of a city fire rising. Love drifts west, forgets, blackens. She drives to follow it. And swallows, a fountain of Philomelas words, emerge from a viaduct.