Sunset on a beach in California
is the only thing I can write about today.
Rage-filled and obstinate, lonely and guilty,
I search for the poem that will make you sorry,
I search for that perfect alliance of sounds and syllables
you cannot slink out of understanding.
But still my fingers keep flying over the keyboard
composing stanzas about sunset
on a beach in California.
Under the last light of the sun
mirrored by deep green waves
in the palm of a hand composed
of sea, sand, cliffs, and endless sky,
there is no need for
you probably stopped reading
at the first sentence,
halfway across the country the sun in sinking down to sleep
over a pearl necklace of beaches
in that state of citrus and salt water.
As long as our Copernican planet
keeps turning like a woman tanning on a towel,
here, to let Africa get a little light,
here, to America,
As long as the phoenix sun falls in love with the sky every morning,
I can rotate on my own axis.
I let gravity spin me like the ballerina
that George Melitonovitch Ballanchine dreamed of.
Always turning my face towards somewhere beautiful: