Mountains rise white in Buena Park.
The snow came in from the Pleiades
To say how far away the white is
Of our spirit.
The streets of Cascade Circle
Are encased in mirror.
The grass
By Commerce Casino, enflamed by new sun,
Befriends the names left behind: Blaze, Shred, Spar
-- At large and now in charge on Isra Mi'raj --
The pebbles sun themselves
Beside the Blisterpak storm drains
Where the world shines back
As if it was all nothing,
The thing that plagued the sleep of orphaned children.
Light will make a mockery
Of the cold blue moneyed spires
-- Even the ties by Mission Tower glisten from home--
And will inhabit hobo chairs
Wet like redwood beside
The shiny tracks,
To view the passing
In a different white.
The river pours like a concrete truck,
Flowing wings, as birds arise
Unearthly bright.
