behind a mass of rain clouds
a gift from a storm system that
was born in the north Pacific
& traveled across
many miles of
open water
just
to pelt the sliding glass dooras hindu windchimes
carefully ennunciate every syllable
the salt spray the
stuttering neon
archives
& the slow fade
bending
harmonicas in the dark concert hall of the heart
to be buried beneath the waves
3 miles from the Venice
pier
Guitars slashed by wind & rain the mariachi version
heavy slow rustling of palm leaves
the
bead curtains & smoke rings stashed in the trunk
of a stolen El Dorado
as if you were born the day I died
I leave you the bad habits of my father
along with several that were all my
own
wearing
dark glasses at the dinner table
but
it was only to hide the tears I
couldn’t
explain even if I wanted to
