}} California |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










California

That was not what I meant: I meant the ugly shortcut
landscape blistered by back-burning. A corona-pocked Bay Area
hillside in September, betrayed by precautionary measures
intended to still any incendiary tendencies

I meant foxholes, blurred vision, a fine hair of reason
tracking through the mud of faith. Belonging: to be, and then
not in arms, but set apart, cynical, buttressed by
personal evangelisms

I meant cynicism, green and telecast

I meant the retreat, time spent by the window of a vacant house,
a faded flower from the man who sold milk, tacit
accord passed with greater currency than cash
or contents

I meant the pull of it, weight of wanting both a flicker and a fire,
riddling of currents, a wish to ascend above
the scrimmage, wane into relief, not jockey for satisfaction
in prompt payment or calendaring

I meant loneliness, but saying it makes it so, neither a shortcut
nor a foxhole, not a thing in place of the night or the dog. The night
a piece of chalk against the street, the dog chained to the fence, invisible
barking through the night
 
 
         Previously published in Salt Hill