Poetry Home Page

Here in the land of
churches and gas stations,
we move sparingly and slow
in the simmering heat.

Peach fuzz rises with the sun.
Days, over-exposed and glittering,
melt into the same twenty four hours
of recycled white noise.
Asphalt softens like canal bank mud.
around concrete malls.

Outside, roses cremate
themselves colorless;
blackbirds haven't the energy
to flap or complain.

A slow freight screams,
drags itself toward the cool Pacific,
steel and grease churning
along burning rails.

I sweat, leaning into the open vents
of a straining swamp cooler,
pregnant, nineteen and newly married,
breathless in some dark corner,
wondering how the hell
we ever made it this far.