Page 42 - Contrast2004

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He lies on the couch in his living room, ancient, worn,
gray-stained with cigarette burns and our memories. My mouth
silent, his eyes talking. They are shifting, beginning to color like leaves

. of past Octobers. I wonder if they believe
in autumn in California, if they will celebrate fall

when he arrives in Los Angeles.

I've never dreamed for three thousand miles, couldn't sleep in Los Angeles,
where sunlight becomes the minute hand of every hour, judqments worn

as easily as two-toned Gucci or faded denim jeans falling
just the right height above slim ankles. Los Angeles can sing, I only mouth

words hoping to hold melodies. He believes,
perhaps the truth, in a tune that can carry him when he leaves.

I see each carefully placed freckle as scattered leaves
across his skin that won't tan, not even in Los Angeles.
He won't cling to summer, grasp for the sun, despite beliefs
that rising heat can heal. I sit chilled, my core cold, sending warnings

while a smile spreads, melting a mouth
I've kissed three thousand times. Who will fall

40 Contrast 2004