people can be gone
in a single instant. or maybe not--
maybe it comes
little by little

Oh Lord, when i die, let it not, i pray Thee, be on facebook.
not by text, email, or
any electronic demise.
let it be with brave, cruel-to-be-kind blows,
face to face

in the meantime, maybe i'll open a hamburger
joint called ground zero
i'll be proprietor, cook, and only customer.
kind of like my love life--

but i digress.

in california, on the other side of the fence, there were tangerines
and blossoms, the scent was divine;
the fruit, out of reach. i tried to train the squirrel
to bring me one,
and he did
but it was mostly eaten.
meanwhile,
the sun went down behind the california hills like a basketful of oranges.
memory was the path i climbed
up echo mountain, my son steadfastly by my side
to keep me from falling off the edge.

Oh Lord, how i love him! keep him safe, i pray thee.
(there are times when even the hearts of the godless must pray.)

there is no way at all to convey anything about
my time in california, except to say
it made me want to live after all.
a bitten moon hung over a palm tree.
near things felt unfamiliar, far things
felt like the back of my hand.

there we were laughing at the sign:
HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY-- WE MAKE IT POSSIBLE FOR EVERYONE!
the illustration: a white-haired couple laughing
in delighted anticipation
of being dead

(as we had walked to the car you said, "uh, there's
a little problem...")

i was lying flat on my back, choking with laughter.
the seat was broken and the back wouldn't stay up.
"it really isn't funny", you said.)
the top was down. everyone could see me lying there,
laughing.
"it really isn't funny", you said again.

3,000 miles away. when dusk fell, i could smell the salt water
and hear the faint cries of the seagulls.
the back fence was shadowed in the sway of the palms.
the flagstones were littered with gutted tangerines.

conversations continue now
in memory,
the ones we had day by day
paying no mind at the time to their transience

mist spread a veil under my wings all the way home

there are places in this world
with rivers on whose banks
the most destitute people
wake to a year of eclipses.