AND IF I AWAKEN IN LOS ANGELES

             I will find a crazy boy teetering there

             on the sidewalk against morning traffic,

             too far gone to even ask for a quarter.

             I will hear his mother call for him,

             her spirit confused by the taste

             of sadness,

             and though she searches for him

             everywhere,

             she will never find him here.

             And if I awaken in Los Angeles

             I will hear the lost beloved one

             sing Billie Holiday in my ear—

             she lives in a parallel universe,

             is kind to rats and does

             no harm to anyone.

             And if I awaken in Los Angeles I will know

             that I am not the only dreamer.

             I will appear in the vision of a dove

             who perches on the balcony

             of the apartment.

             In his translation I am the human with a store

             of birdseed. He is the sun.

             I am a fruitful planet.

             And if I awaken in Los Angeles

             I will not have to get up and say my prayers

             to the east, and look out over the city of millions,

             past the heads of palm trees, through foggy breezes—

             because I will be a prayer as I perform the rituals

             of being a human.

             There will

             be no difference

             between

             near and far.

             This morning I have too much to do to awaken.

             I say my prayers, feed the birds,

             then head to the refrigerator and forget.