#33

You swear you live in the folds
of a heart, the warm envelope
of beating blood, the comfort
of a protective muscle--

that the world rises up
around you like the sweet parentheses
of mountains, and mountains
turn to glorious granite hands--

#32

Along the swolen shoeboxes
that are the warehouses of North Hollywood,
set across the valley like a fortress
for the city, the pavement absorbs sunlight,

resonates heat along the margin
of thrift shops and parts plants,
from a plane, the yellow glow is
so hot it turns to gray,

the feet of the faces become statues
next to the broken down cars worthy
of their tinkering, the revved up burnt oil
that echoes against the foothills.