WEBVTT

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This poem is called "Vallejo."

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About where I'm
from in California.

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"Vallejo."

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"Fresh peaks of salt and pepper
hair amidst scratchy brine.

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Barnacles of sunshine
and vermouth,

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she looks about light.

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The ears of a dead
orchard, persimmons

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knocked out by starlets.

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My palm is soft confusion.

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Sleep in the center of morning,
old jeans, strong coffee,

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a sister to be found in
gold whisky and soap.

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I am always a child here.

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My mother smooth and small.

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I crawl along the isthmus.

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The wet pasture of egrets.

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The softness that
would be water.

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It is a fever of bread
that would be coarseness.

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It is an orange heart
that rests in my palm.

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The hills are nothing
if not reception."

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