Thirty miles or so south of L. A. stand two hangars, like two tombs on the plain between the freeway and the mountains,
The hawk sweeps down from his aerie,dives among swallows,turns over twice in the air,
It’s too beautiful today. Even the ramshackle Fine Arts Work Center is beautiful
While Miss Capp, older than the Constitution, droned of checks and balances, I dutifully filled my notebook (college-lined), and prayed
At rest-hour a rhythmicfaint squink, squinkin the top bunkfarthest from the counselor:
