Here now, sweet,
desert heat, an oasis
of sun-blockers and pieced
vehicles: a matte motorcycle
like Los Angeles in the times.
Here at the beach,
the river bends
and our backs do,
nothing gold
except sweet jaws,
gold only the mango.
Here, sleeveless,
the children growing
up wild are they
piercing kidneys now
with their skin,
running scabby to death.
Here there's smoke here,
smoke here in the wind,
charcoal and sunglasses,
weekday mornings, casual
as holiday seashells.
