Nothing like the beauty
Of the listening head snapping up
Of the shoulders falling
Of the triumph of a secret thought
When the dream comes true.
As a net cast, dreaming upwards
Eight months prior, in Los Gatos
Two statues, nocked in invitational stance
Now only afford
Clean inhalations, clean exhilarations.
I pretended to read, in Los Altos
I don’t know why I examine
The man walking up
And down the rutted aisles of
Auditorium anywhere, packed
Planetariums, the galaxy breathes as
two kids speak in foreign tongues.
Getting back to it, in Sunnyvale
I read and reread the first lines
As a song on repeat, peeking out
There are no crows gathering above.
It sure feels like there are.
Along the estuarine, gulls wing
The old coastal scrub and oak savanna,
paved marine woodlands, now stifled.
This is no place for a cowboy,
In Mountain View, spirit clefted.
I saw a bag fly
I saw its wrinkles hover
the Jiffy Lube,
Riding high, tugging upwards.
Supplicating, grasping at
Hot dry cotton breeze.
Flat, dusted with utterances
Of wildfire smoke particulate matter
Of projected stars
Of free, burnt coffee.