The shallow green waves make patterns on the beach,
blisters and dark space. A backwash of brown glass...
You were like the marks that trail along the road
the breaking of the wind
All of you shown
When me and you would spin
We came home, and we came out again
Me the letter, delivered to a friend
You carried me all the way
Just so we can see the end
You are like the raven without it’s wings
Yet you were fast like the thunder
Black as shadow, but bright when the angel sings
The cab driver shakes his head
when I look in his direction.
He’s not free.
I ask a passerby.
Which direction is uptown?
A few foreign words spill from her lips.
She probably thinks
I’m asking for change.
It’s starting to rain a little.
I curse myself for leaving my umbrella
in the hotel room.
The traffic is loud and loathsome,
none of it going my way.
The taste of the morning’s coffee,
straight from the La Brea tar pits,
is still on my tongue.
I despise not knowing where I am.
He guides the knife in and runs it
along the ridge of backbone.
Slices through the section
Where are all the warhorses?
The streets look so empty,
The tar is turning cold.