for Craig
If it was William Holden sitting with his back to your view
on Los Feltz Boulevard, the convent on two hills
with a wooden bridge from wing to wing,
he'd be drinking down a woman drinking in the scene.
If it were Fatty Arbuckle, he'd probably be
on his knees looking for a butter‑knife,
a half moon rising behind him
like a clown face from the Hollywood Hills.
No, that's the dome of the observatory
from Rebel Without A Cause.
Dean is up there facing down at you,
his arms wide, egging you on.
It's the star take on your balcony,
the San Gabriel mountains like cowled
figures in the smog, waiting for snowy collars,
waiting out of season for just a hint of sea.
Here in the East it's all I look toward,
the ocean, though it tends to shrink life,
the tidal plosives spitting big lonely deal
on my skin, its strictly Iife‑or‑death smell.
From deep in a suburban crowd of trees
I vainly follow these thoughts
like trying to keep up with the plan
of a thousand dizzy leaves in one strong wind.
We share this sky, at least. I imagine we turn
together to look south and stare down trouble,
compounded by shining glass eyes in rows and columns.
It's the world we actually believe would have us:
the skyscrapers of Los Angeles
that bank on the game‑ghosts of laughter,
and Washington's marble value warehouses,
where meaning is polled and found to be unpopular.