Small motors for taming grass moan, the day not so hot, in the Times the columns of the dead are short ones
dried fronds droop at the tops of palms, brown petticoats to fall on walkers as Santa Anas send husks flying
the dream with a bride upended, long white veil trailing
a dance performance where Apollo and muses create expertly crafted geometry with their bodies
meeting the friend not seen for a long time, her tanned and lipsticked face, amiably she removes a sleek wig from her bald skull
it makes me so hot, little sounds with the mouth like water stumbling
past café windows green and black snakelike leaves, brushstrokes from a phallic era of painting, crow feathers’ seismic rustling
gray ficus trunks easy to carve into, names overlay names, roots coiled inconveniently above ground slashed to fit corridors between sidewalk and curb
here in my body it feels crowded, bottles slithering in a recycle truck, cataracts of glass
