drilling holes in the white wall
to repair the rest of the world
workshirts feed clocks’ hands
circular splash of rosewood paint
wound of silence spent
the loud city
will not silence me
(originally published in Eunoia Review, February 2016)
Los Angeles was a chance, a retreat.
The army of cars sounded like firecrackers,
The rain somehow escaped.
The hideout was flight: the highway
a drug, a prison.
California was injured– a people debris.
The mountain was a wounded relief–
the face of thunderstorms.
(originally published in 3by3by3 – October 18, 2015)