My West & East
Where high above slim arms
the feathery boas of royal palms
jive, where below the wharf sea lions yip
& gray-vested seagulls stand sifting kelp,
the Santa Cruz ocean heaves —
everywhere, debris on sand or drift & sewage seep,
each sunrise golden palette bleeds
into bright day, this autumn
warmer than my first New England autumn —
a wet September —
& beyond, that runaway summer
panned on a black-&-white filmstrip,
when out from my Pontiac’s upholstery slipped
my deft unfurling pupal self.
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