Forms a shadow in the gold morning glow.
This was a place I know, but now its touch
Is cold as it lets go across the endless ocean
That will not let you in. The orange homes
Don't contain the memories that I do,
Each street sign a trauma, each storage shell
Full of dreams that never would be realized
Just kept in safekeeping, for someone else
Who is no longer here, except in what
Is being saved. The guns of October
Are now upon me, as Thunderbirds strafe the sky.
The sun shines on homeless and the lonely
Equally, but don't try to make that leap
Where the rip tides take you out, to the place
Of my being, infinity, where what I'm feeling is allowed.
They are digging up the oil field Jennie's
So the pelicans return, from the distant
Purple mountains, no more than a dream
To us here, who stay to make things for everyone
In prisons of familia where there's always
Cornucopias, weeds illuminated
By rainbows. What happens when I can feel
Everything, and the silver scenery falls away?
Even the scrapyard, with its bales of wiry hay
Makes me break down and cry. The days go short,
They grow reflective, harvest emptiness
From the wheels of golden motion that loop the freeway mosques
That chant like rumbling oceans, self contained
As the music of the spheres still washes
On their shores, and they forget they don't exist
In the rolling swells, how they never learned to speak.
