East and West

Like castles on the yellow plains,
The rocks light up with thought from passing clouds,
In valleys thick with dust and gnarly scrub
And rivulets of stones and sticks, where every single green thing
Can be seen, cactus and brush, turning black
In the sweep of large and lonely sky.

The stars are getting darker every day.
These fields beyond the cows will soon be plots of concrete block,
The trash along their washes the only freedom.
Death row West, where still there are the stories
Of some escaping, one still can see some scenes
Where we were born.

That may be why
Most people prefer
The nasty Atlantic,
Swirling like cold sewage,
Sparse with beaches, jammed with families
Throwing children in to play amid the runoff and the algae
To the placid Pacific,
Its unearthly hues of blue and golden auras,
Its sleek abyssal surfers who become a part of nature,
Its sweet abstract debris and silver streaming
That dares you to come in its bracing purity,
But doesn't really let you sink or swim.

The smell of the lawns
Are calling me home.