Fake Blonde in Red

A wind opens the door
the beach at Topanga
Mount Tamalpais drifting in the fog
the road to Dakar

It's the cool wind
coming in off the ocean
at dusk
the hills are on fire
I'm thirsty
this is an interpretive dance

O by the silvery light of tide pools
I often think of the
tear-stained pavement
of Todos Santos
         Hawaiian Mythology
                  & all the names that are
                           crossed out in your address book

                                    whoever you are this time

& so tumbling down the Odessa steps
           filmed in black & white
your pearls, your Mexican silver, your troubled past
assuming a pale shade of
                                variegated turquoise

but like alleyways 
         near the beach
                  held in the grip of
                           a sunset aura

the burgundy nail polish
was a dead giveaway