I was lying in the sun,
Near juniper shrubs and storybook villas.
Not enough profit and pleasure in the telling of,
The tapping of a cigarette,
The brush of bare knees,
A long draught of wine,
Closing the shutters on balconies,
With blinds made of lace at Angel’s Bay.
Red watermelon hues.
I’ve read Spring in Fialta twice,
For the smell of old books.
I hope to meet the sea,
With salt drowned in rain,
Its waves too lethargic to break foam.
I am yet to meet a visiting circus,
Yet to appreciate windless air,
Dampened and rumpled small flowers,
Excite the echoed thunder.
I was lying in the sun,
Near orange title rooftops and diamond folks.
American made neighborhood kids,
I’ve had my cake at a bungalow in Del Mar.
I heard ghost stories along railroad tracks,
Where the train shook the foundation of my father’s home.
I’ve climbed a latter to touch grape vines,
Stopped a fist fight in my driveway.
I was lying in the sun,
Lost, lost in the sunbeams.
Brightness climbs my belly.
I shall be good as new.