Poetry

This early, the small birds’ trudging notes;
Six storeys high, a crane looms
As in graceful blessing…

Meet me at the Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach,
That shabby, squat nightclub on its foggy pier.
Let’s aim for the summer of ’71,
When all of our friends were young and immortal.

Heavy blue veins streak across my mother’s legs,
Some of them bunched up into dark lumps at her ankles.

What was the heart of her story,
tired, on their bicycles, night

coming on while they tried to reach
Lago di Balseno, the farmer,

Let’s go downtown. It’s a hot summer night.
Lovers are sitting in sidewalk cafés—
Breaking up, making up, hooking up, cooking up
Plans for tonight that leave them amazed.

Dear L.A.,

I am sorry for your—Dear 

Baja and Bay, I am sorry 

The potter’s field of the sea, where so many 
have been buried bereft of names.
The tombstone of the moon marks where they lie. 

To get to the country, make sure your car is in good shape.
You must fill your tank with gas and carry more in a cask.
Take enough food, medicine, clothes, water, a mat, and a blanket.