This poem is called "Vallejo."
About where I'm from in California.
"Vallejo."
"Fresh peaks of salt and pepper hair amidst scratchy brine.
Barnacles of sunshine and vermouth,
she looks about light.
The ears of a dead orchard, persimmons
knocked out by starlets.
My palm is soft confusion.
Sleep in the center of morning, old jeans, strong coffee,
a sister to be found in gold whisky and soap.
I am always a child here.
My mother smooth and small.
I crawl along the isthmus.
The wet pasture of egrets.
The softness that would be water.
It is a fever of bread that would be coarseness.
It is an orange heart that rests in my palm.
The hills are nothing if not reception."