In a city where men shout across the streets
Shit Shit God bless you lady ay Miguel
bark wordless pain like dogs,
roar rage in one dark syllable,
or stand and beat an oak tree with their fists,
or walk ten feet of driveway back and forth
in boots and Nazi cap and steel chains,
or sit and shiver, silent, in the sun,
I steer among the wrecks, the reefs,
through poppies, roses, red valerian,
passionflower, trumpet vine,
camellia, dogwood, foam of plum and pear,
mock orange and true orange,
gold of the Hesperides,
sweetness of freesias, garlands, wreaths
of red and yellow, white and green,
dark fragrance of eucalyptus,
glitter and rustle of inordinate palms.
Through the mockingbird morning
I make my way bewildered,
in the city of ruined men
in the valley of the ghosts of orchards
in the broken heart of California
in the nation of addiction
in the kindest month.