Poetry

The three fates in dark
skirts and starched shirtwaists
bend over their work,

Thirty miles or so south of L. A.
stand two hangars, like two tombs
on the plain between
the freeway and the mountains,

On a clear day, the jealous
Are jealous of ash leaves,
Flies, all jewelry of air.

The Germans have a word for it, the pleasure
in what one does best. Don’t fret the accent;