I will
borrow an April sky,
over red California cliffs,
the trail
by the lonely lighthouse,
where
summer sits
patiently,
crouches painfully
under the
ocean’s salted breath.
I will
borrow you, Mr. Keats,
before
that death
made
oceans of your lungs, consumed
your body
in an inner tide.
You and I
will walk together
on the
cold cliff side.
What do
you think of metal beasts
on
sickle-celled streets behind us?
These
swift sunny-eyed carriages
tossing
red dust
into the
purple evening sky?
Sleepy
clouds roll by, gathering
night in
their sleeves as you and I
find
ourselves walking
up the
steps of the old lighthouse.
The
windows show an orange glow,
cancerous
crescendo in night.
You race
to know
the
gridded city of angels.
No knight
at arms, no nightingale
in LA, Belle Dame sans Merci.
The
rusted rail
wails in
the wind as you lean out,
bent
toward a distant, buried home.
The
foghorn yells, and lost bells toll
somewhere in Rome .
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