the desert ponds are still there
and creased linen cloth hills, bushes trickling down the valleys
forming seaweed pools
against the sand of west coast poetry

a Santa Clara valley of fever dreams
soft mountains too bright to look at
and beyond somewhere the roaring pacific
still speaking to you?

towards a sprawling Los Angeles,
your words,
and long smoke sunsets

my eyes dripping with red nuances
instead of the mouth
and so many crossed out words
where you would have none

women do wonder