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.