Since I left everyone’s been busy
witnessing turnover. My vision is slippery

with lymph. Swell, blood but
the wound itself remains

elusive. Ruins speckle the man-
made landscape; the noble erection

of each abandoned chimney
proclaims its lonesome

dignity. Since I left, I get it:
these bits of Sisyphus. Every day

I heft myself up to get a better look, but crumble
back to the body in parts: limbic-distend. Maybe later,

honey. The live oaks still amble
to the feet of San Gorgonio. Parallel,

but sinuous. I’ve been busy connecting
the dots: this other side of the planet

also blisters with cat-song. The fluid human
bellies up to new bars, while the sun rumbles

from you to me to you again. You wouldn’t believe
what a quiet thing I have become.