xxxxxxiv.

the whisper, below
the blade,

in the speakers, the
flash, falls

the dead live, now
the earth, rucked

open, to walk
among them the living

xxxxxxi.

at night, and in the odd corners
of the day--

I dream a city, falling into the sun,
the lights, rising,

to touch the stars, and a long
boulevard, and quiet corner,

and the lights lit, under the eaves,
yes, I dream the eucalyptus

bowing, to touch the ground, and
the water rising, from

the dead leaves, and I lay down,
on the broken fabric,

and I do not wake, but the dawn
falls over my face,

and my eyes open, and I do not
wake, because sleep

has come, and stays, and walks
with me--and who knows

what the day will bring
and I do not wake,

the mulch crumbles
under my feet, and the pepperfruit

crushed between my fingers, astringent
the dove murmurs

in consternation--but I will not wake,
and the houses slope,

and fall into the street, and the street
curves, cuts the hills, in two--

and I do not wake, but I climb,
and the manzanita clings to my boots,

and brushes the dusty ground