Pampus grass,
pomp and circumaortic stances
exit left, where
the heart is set
on the navigable coast.
Down,
down, down,
arise,
smoke plumes and charismatic plumbers before dawn on a Sunday afternoon,
nap time, and tired
pacific gas and electric power line infestations, like
the lower abdominal of a woman in her twenties expressing something,
arm tattoos to no end,
incise two letters that aren’t her own.
Initials will break you,
make you want to
combust
or be airborne
like fire blight affecting Asian pears
back west
in the sunken back
yards of homeowners who live freely
fighting their heirs,
gophers aerating the soil,
cycling, cycling, cycling
and flipping a middle finger
to the wounded
here, there, asunder
under interstate bypasses,
threading Highway One hairpins for Eureka,
an acupuncturist’s needles,
so things can grow, and
start again.