Passing semis & lonely hay bales,
it was always my opinion that
California
could survive
on the light peaking through mountaintops.
Abandoned mills and silos and factories
tell the stories
the old model Chevy already knows.
Baby,
I'm picturing grey rain
on your cobblestone sidewalks
& past lives of olive skin.
I can count
your touch
from collarbone
to collarbone;
the same way the orchard rows
flick past my window.
Author notes
thoughts driving through rural northern california.
Comments
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Collarbone, to collarbone;... is fantastic. However think maybe the fgisrt stanza could be cut back. Impressed, as ever.
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