Poetry

Thirty miles or so south of L. A.
stand two hangars, like two tombs
on the plain between
the freeway and the mountains,

On a clear day, the jealous
Are jealous of ash leaves,
Flies, all jewelry of air.

The Germans have a word for it, the pleasure
in what one does best. Don’t fret the accent;

These evening hours of blank heat I feel
utterly alone, until the air ripples a bit
and I think of everyone luxuriating in its
 gift
at once, like a congregation. I live, after all,