The air is close in agreement — go!
Souls of bleached stars transmigrate earthward as
Fools gold flecks of east hill homes electric test the resistance of viscous night.
Lawnfronts studded with grenade-weight cones
The rot bombs of spendthrift flora, I heft
A good palm-feel and sap-swell
To launch them, plant air in the sedentary fog.
Posters all-over-plastered in town tell me
Find your inner light!
There are so few places, any more.
I catch an errant breath of redwood pine
But it diminishes, like a teacher.
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