I felt the loneliness of this winter
softly sweeping away the converging parts of the sun

I heard the proud moans of the afternoon
over the empty trees. The humble silence
grabbed their looks,
and just as if they were

watching
God,
their mouths wobbled, bemused

shrouds of comfort.
This loneliness emerging out of
keepsakes snug
inside my pocket, burst forth
rushing
quaking
in the tepid air

It was winter in Los Angeles

My mother grew older,
and we remained up on the corner
where birds faced east, ah-
up the dust turned grainy in the cold wind
(It bothered me finding it on the windowsill)

Hopes that
ran away from me
bespoke of little change in the cerulean sky;
there were no differences, no hidden lies

The hills suppressed under weighty skyscrapers
slurred through the senseless feet
of suits
running out of time
like my mother, except
their visions floated,
not yet trapped,
ready to tap
into some shroud of light

Any day now in cloudy Los Angeles.