Big-eyed Transience
Beauty gives you a postcard
with a picture of L.A. at dusk.
Someone is having a good time.
Someone wants you to come out.
How out can you, you think.
Behind your back teeth stand up
like mountains over the desert.
Your fate lets little bitter clouds
butter-flitter over the horizon.
You can’t think how it would be.
O, the hungry mornings,
hungry for real light,
hungry for a gentle touch,
an invitation like a warm lap.
You think only of happy things.
Caramel colored rocks
warm in your pockets.
They’re weight in your pockets.
Your hands wait in you pockets.
You can imagine others waiting.
The sun comes up later
and later the light weaves
vibrant reds and blues
through the serape in the window.
The dog’s eyes shine like saucers.
Your wildest dreams come true
and it’s almost nightmarish.
There’s the warm lap and a sofa,
and lots of lips all over your face,
as breath wraps around your neck.
Shards of pottery attempt a dialogue.
Time comes and you’re all out.
You and beauty walk with no illusion.
You and you have this in common.
Earth makes this small
transition.