set loose in open fields like recovered injured wildlife,
always running away from, never toward or to.
a voice message on my parent's answering machine at 4 am full of terror,
"sorry i never called, you were right about the living room."
combing the coast for signs of life,
drawn to beach house brush fires like winged bugs in a dark night.
these cities are mostly flammable, Malibu to Silverlake,
country club to your uncle's condo.
bet his life savings on a beachfront property
and watch the tide take the ashes away.
the ten o'clock news is just fire, fire, fire.
forgetting the map on a mountain highway, we can't find the way on our own.
twisting and turning in a hungry spiral that takes us
through hills too high to see the shore,
no demarcation 'til dawn cracks the eastern ridge and
we remember we have a home.
trudging through the front door too tired, no one taking off their shoes.
a ritual to keep the floors clean,
a losing battle to pretend there's something here to own.
the roof we paid to rent is a sword to swing at strangeness,
but there's no shield
because there's no heat
and the pilot light is missing.
bad kids go wherever they want and stay up way too late.
babies turn from breast milk too young, declaring "i am tired of this taste."
-blh 2007
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