WEBVTT

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"My Daughter La
Chola Near Sonnet."

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Call to me the one among your
names that opens beneath you,

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intimate as your next thought,
cymbaling on the shore,

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arranging all those
grains of sand,

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mica in the mosaic of
the bank's portico.

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All your lived and storied
coordinates, that you

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are young, that you are blank.

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In the air, in the
cluster of antenna,

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the remaining Barton men make
of themselves riding back

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the yellow fire
hills of California.

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Slip between understandings,
name the single ridge

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of Bell Bronze that
tins out the wind.

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