Californian (“You want to go back”)

You want to go back

where grief was perfect weather...



A long time

rain trussed the perspectives



with rope and silver. In the grove,

in the eucalyptus,



shadow bound

in shapeless sheaves : a sfumato of indigo



and graphite leaving the air

beneath the leaves a stain, as of mineral



and berries, a smear of menthol.

No birds ever—



or it seems so now—

in the forest. No sound



but a soft mathematics in the branches,

rain adding rain



to rain. No growth—

each tree’s dermis : dark blown glass and a breath



kept inside. And fastened

with twists of thin wire



to the branches, the leaves’ useless

ruined currency;



it glisters :

a mint of flattened nickels. It seems



you have come back—but

the money of your elegies is no good here,



listen : it isn’t your pennies any longer

hold his eyes closed.