It’s all happening downstairs. Our arms are
up in the air, but still below sea level. My poems
aren’t resolute, but they keep returning to water,
jostled love, and baffled memories. The
same words in different combinations.
The sky looks like the 60s. How could I
ever know? Hello from September, it’s
December. October meet August.
I felt an earthquake all the way from
the other end of the world, Napa Valley.
Then we went to Santa Cruz, its amuse
ment park along the beach. We were amused,
laid in the sand until a seal popped its head
out of the water. I used to eat at a place called
Baxter’s. I don’t remember it.
Francois Ozon was born five months after me.
It’s a hard act to follow. Now that I’m in the
doghouse, I smoked a bit on the rooftop of
someone who knows Maxine Hong Kingston.
He got a little weirded out about the
whole thing. I cried buckets at the end of the
movie. Wait...maybe it’s all coming back to me.
