the backwards-facing S,
a decoration in the iron rail,
was here when I came,
with its extra curlicues
at each end,
and a miniature
version of itself
like a foetus
affixed to its middle.

I’m telling you more, perhaps,
than you need to know.

The sun on the rail’s
inner curves
is a private matter,
something like love,
despite the roar
of the nearby freeway.

I mix love up with safety.


It’s hard to come by good
while California
goes up in flames.

It’s hard to have
a new idea
when temps in LA
rival those in Iran.

I can’t say anything
more original than:
‘Gender Reveal Party
Sparks Massive Wildfire’
in tinder-dry forest.


You never know
what will matter next.

Pack everything.

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