\nThe city\u2019s hieroglyphics
\nappearing from the haze as if
\nwe are descending<\/p>\n
In a plane and hover right above the moment when words become legible.<\/p>\n
The air, like rough, white parchment,<\/p>\n
The chaparral in the Santa Monica Mountains continues to erupt<\/p>\n
Its desires, bush to bush beating with invisible flashing hearts\u2014<\/p>\n
Helicopters fly low over the China graffiti and explosions of bougainvillea.<\/p>\n
We ascend the mountain\u2019s alter-stair to the Hollywood sign,<\/p>\n
glowing apparitional
\non the hill.<\/p>\n
The diminutive orange trumpets of the sage blossoms blow<\/p>\n
Their small notes of color and scent.<\/p>\n
I want to be your young wife<\/p>\n
Thirty hours pregnant, . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<\/span>The lights of L.A. flicker like millions of votives in the temple. And I say it with Sappho,<\/p>\n Let it happen to me, all.<\/em><\/p>\n The ravens, like hustlers, ascend the avocado tree.<\/p>\n A charred squirrel, insides spilled and lit up like black pearls\u2014<\/p>\n The lights scatter in a dense universe of stars.<\/p>\n When you rise to go<\/p>\n I\u2019ll turn into the cat-claw acacia, I was like the melanophilia beetle<\/p>\n Who senses the fire from miles away A snake darts fast between us,<\/p>\n Dangerous as the look on my face and the look on yours.<\/p>\n
\n. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . <\/span>Neruda opened at my pelvis.<\/p>\n
\nand reflex<\/p>\n
\n. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<\/span>I\u2019ll hook your clothes; I\u2019ll hook a rib.<\/p>\n
\n . . . . . . . . . . . . .<\/span>And comes to lay her eggs in the heat.<\/p>\n