Poetry

sic on it, the cameras: witch-green greasepaint canopy—
pan down: the thick bamboo lattice
twine-bound—pan down: dirt with rags to gag up,

Nobody knows what anything
means anymore.
Sea-turtles run inland
at birth.

Let’s go downtown. It’s a hot summer night.
Lovers are sitting in sidewalk cafés—
Breaking up, making up, hooking up, cooking up
Plans for tonight that leave them amazed.

Dear L.A.,

I am sorry for your—Dear 

Baja and Bay, I am sorry 

The potter’s field of the sea, where so many 
have been buried bereft of names.
The tombstone of the moon marks where they lie. 

To get to the country, make sure your car is in good shape.
You must fill your tank with gas and carry more in a cask.
Take enough food, medicine, clothes, water, a mat, and a blanket.