Poetry

  For all the years he worked as a pattern cutter
in the denim sweatshops of Los Angeles,
  my father never spoke of what it was he did.

Luis Morone
cuts adrift

sinks flies
flickers out

Height after height of strange mountain scenes,

new words, new ideas in our conversation.

I just left them there holding their breath,
summer dripping from their honeyed
muzzles.