here the heat has texture to it,

and color and sight; far removed from

any cloistered winter, drawn about in a

huddled rush against the next push of


there is no life but one of moments

and this moment now erupts in a sudden

thousand peals of ornamental songs.

this is an overwrought truth, that

small americans in far places paint

our poetic reality out in faceless

symbolism; call this a city of ghosts-

of burning stone and linen, of endless skies

and blue water, of the desert pushing its way

outward, struggling to the sea.

none of this is true.

every street leads itself strung out to the sea

and the traffic hushes its desperate way toward

the business district and we have been here for

six months now, my skin finally yielding itself

to the sun, open against the closeness of summer

as the gulf rushes its ancient pattern

against the Corniche-

we see it every day, driving home.