I.
The bags were sticky with the refuse we'd collected
As sand birds scavenged scraps blown to the tar
And the low sun mist turned the tattooed six-year-olds gold
And the sea froth yellow. The few who remained
To stare at the foam
Still hoped for a new way to see.
II.
The day the chemtrails stopped
The Hollywood Bowl howled,
The caves of LA emptied,
Its hillsides posed for portraits,
And the pueblo voiced itself
In street flute and rough timbales.
It pulled the homeless from their smoke,
Families out of balloons,
To extricate the real from summer fountains...
An afternoon of waiting turned
To a merger between equals with the sun.
