Then I got back to California, and woe betide.
California Twilight, am I too far away from the microphone
if I do this?
Because I'm much more comfortable
leaning back, something to hold me up.
Late evening July, and no one at home.
In the green lungs of the willow,
fly worms and lightning bugs, blood spot the whips and wings.
Blue asters become electric against the hedge, what was it
I had in mind?
The last hurrah of a skateboard dwindles down Oak Street Hill.
Slowly a leaf unlocks itself from a branch.
Slowly the folded hands of the dead
flutter up from their caves.
A little pinkish flame is snuffed in my mouth.