escaping the flat blue foundry of the Mojave.

Feeling sick half way there, I wonder where

the land will end and where to go from there.

Couples loop sordid promises on bathroom stalls

across the ample interstates of America.

Vacationing planes painted like killer whales

sink toward the airport with jet echolocation,

disturbing my windowpanes and sleep.

Without meaning to, I write Lost Angeles.

Wind in the green paradise of fronds imitates

the spatter of rain. The days after the rain,

those are beautiful also, but there is no rain.

Off the coast the Pacific is dark all the way across,

even over the Great Garbage Patch, our plastic,

our purchases. The lights ascend as passengers

touch down. Sometimes a flower is so striking,

it doesn’t need to bother with scent.

We’ll approach curiously, just for the beauty.