In the quiet applause
of falling rain
I wake too slow
to hurry the houseplants out
to rinse the leaves clean.
Indoors and dull with dust
but wet earth
enlivens the green pulse
that pulls us
out the door, barefoot
beneath dripping trees.
Oceans of traffic sounds
lap at this stucco house.
Behind the backyard
another backyard,
another pale house
on its thru-boulevard.
Dreams full of cars
on the second floor.
In this second floor air
we are open more
sigh windows in summer
in touch with each other
on currents that close the doors.
Only a small sun
and the heat in waves
leaves her,
arms and legs
and hair swept up
with steam
undone down dark halls
in the blue-black shade
this old house makes
even on bright days.
Rare dinosaur dreams
where everything feels outsize—
shiny magnolia leaves
like books
fall open to the sky.
Giant flowers tremble
as giant insects arrive
and even the air feels heavy,
dangerous with life.
The door is gone.
We slid it in the wall.
Outside air
likes basking
in the front hall.
We step soft,
even when we run,
ankle deep
in bees
on the clover lawn.
Strung up
in the hard Djerban sun,
I chose you, my very fine
sea sponge.
Tiny grains of reef
still netted
in your feet,
I can tell,
like a shore-blown tree,
you grew
with the flow of the sea.
Even now, years later,
here in the shower,
you still smell oceany.
So different up close
from the desert I know,
more resinous, dark,
alive to the beetles
and pocket mice
who call your ancient creosote ring
home, who after rain,
when you’re starred with spring,
pattern the salt-earth
with their pattering
in this alluvial
shell of a valley
where the wind can’t help
but sing.
for Mikaela
A different idea of wild
than the rest—
more thoughtful,
more simply built.
I hold a flashlight
to the future
you wrote,
watch words
like night-blooming weeds
reseed barren earth.
Even on mild days
we seek your shade,
bare legs painted
in shadows of leaves.
Nearby, a stream
cuts its soft seam to the sea,
a hawk overhead circling.
In a drift of sage
your smooth bones remain,
rusted bark gone
along with your life of leaves.
I would have liked to ride
in the stage that made its way
to Santa Cruz,
this low mountain pass
more than just a day hike then,
when you grew
young and fast.
