Here in L.A. I am so near myself -
white blouse, canvas shorts, sandals tossed.
In L.A. where landscapers are lousy,
where the neon bougainvillea traipses
over wrought iron fences, where rosemary fattens
on sidewalks and stands of sycamore bleed
their beautiful wounds; here among the silent
fading of Basho’s broad banana leaf,
I hear one bird in a naked tree,
its sweet voice filling the blue
air to tell of absence.
Here in the sun,