Electric lines stretch from Mendocino
to Big Sur where the rocks jettison distraction,
clamp in fear, culling awe. I work
asleep along the clustered power lines
populated by transformers, the womb
like cities bursting with energy to fill the country.
Fingering a dog-eared copy of Joan Didion,
you dream of darting across slouching California
to leave me ensnared in this Medusa’s thicket,
in a flash of bristling light.
I am rolling clouds come with thunder,
standing atop a ridge
unable to grasp your graces,
vaporlike in my hand.
I’ve ceased to cherish you,
and you have done the same.
I work the line until nightfall,
and walk out thermos in hand to meet you,
the night rain constant on the highway,
our rust bottom truck winds
the road. The stars, nestled white maize
in black porridge, a light peering through
the ether tar, and you and I breathe
under all this corruption.