"My Daughter La Chola Near Sonnet."
Call to me the one among your names that opens beneath you,
intimate as your next thought, cymbaling on the shore,
arranging all those grains of sand,
mica in the mosaic of the bank's portico.
All your lived and storied coordinates, that you
are young, that you are blank.
In the air, in the cluster of antenna,
the remaining Barton men make of themselves riding back
the yellow fire hills of California.
Slip between understandings, name the single ridge
of Bell Bronze that tins out the wind.