poetry February 8th, 2019
Lantana and Crows
The air gets crisp with melted grass
on quiet, hot days in Southern California.
The sidewalk makes its move to dehydrate
back to cement powder.
Crows and Lantana
glide their skeletons at the sun.
Dashboard covers hardly shield the heat.
Even the basement is hot with the sun.
Lantana glows easily
as if the sun were a
cool, moss-edged pool.
Crows glare back at the glare
to measure the cat’s eye
against other marbles,
buttons and round shiny things.
The crow collects, sorts
and radiates it onto the lawn,
like a grandparent’s knitting pattern.
You don’t have to look at it.
Your arms dangle like hot seatbelts.
Your skin wrinkles more rapidly.
Skeins on the lawn
connecting one corner
of skin to the other.
Cool sheets over hot skin,
cover old furniture.
The sidewalk is cracked where
a tree used to stand.
You wouldn’t know it if you hadn’t seen it.