Jul/Aug 2002 • Poetry |
Long Beach Sunrise
Gray-backed alligators
whose bellies are burning rose
float over Saddlebackwhile the purple San Bernadinos
loom lumpily above
the low hills of Whittierwhose horse-headed pumps
dip behind chickenwire cages
in the tinder-ready grass.Yellow suddenly stains
the faint-starred horizon aqua,
the sea de-grays to silverwhile offshore wells
suck long-chained carbons
into rush hour.
July 4th, 2001
Great hula-hoops sparkle
in dimestore colors,
wide-mouthed
they swallow the horizon.Pop!—they die,
leave long-legged crabs
of smoke behind—soon thinned by wind
to spidery threads.Pop!—they live,
gold willows droop a mile,
silver dandelions sprout,
stalks vanishing
even as they bloom.
Not an Elm
I never saw elms
like these great anchors of shade.
Walk this sidewalk in summer
and no direct rays assault youthrough these parasols woven
of hull-shaped leaves;at most their luminous filter
allows a faint dappling of feet.
Ah, I am more a pine
garbed in needlesthat never dissipate to leaf,
spear heaven as a warning,bleed perfumed resin,
die in a duel with the sun.
Old Friend
Bob Dylan's on the CD rack,
his voice sounds like a heart attack,
his cords like shredded steak—
his voice don't bend,
just breaks and breaks.