I see you in the city, drinking ice
for the dimpled hums of glamor.
And you drive in a small-necked
pug-nosed Spring. Home is glad
because it’s all the same: the old
Erlenmeyer lights on the littered
walk. Same heat. Same sand lies
tense, the muscled dance in place,
even our waves curl—can’t crash.
And then the whale call cop-cars’
song. Oo aa oo aa. And the drug
suckles picked in twos as gutter
cats might. And the bleached rats
leading planes into high-slung hills.
And last night Carlo had a dream,
which over lunch he told me: he
hears the pale queens far off, where
chemical rivers give way to lakes,
by their laughter and loose sighs,
and from his glass kitchen he sees
a valley go red with discarded skirts.