Go back

Playa del Rey
(for Richard Diebenkorn, George Oppen, &c)

Sundays we would drive by in his silver auto which was not really silver. The gliding moon caught still in empty blue, the reptilian tongues of lilty almost-highway breaking undifferentiated grasses into nearly-meadow, sudden lagoon.
And if you turn right there, where the yellow green sweeps up a manic heliopad demarcation, and turn right just as you see that, there is a road'll lead you past a country-seeming store, a bar, a cigarette shop. Left up the curve and it's beaches flanking runways, where with your sister also consult the patterns of the planes to tell a fortune.

Sundays we would drive the pattern of our conversation into lilty silty luxe, and tire out clay bodies from the week so that an almost-breeze could find its entry. Took his hand then, took his hand.

Remember certain motions done in certain autos in certain angles certain views; try to remember only certain grasslands, certain collapses on the lover beach, our sandy wooden floor.

These many Sundays after it's another voice & throat.