A Docile Catch

your face, a riot of laughter, as we pelted the pacific with golf balls. standing on the cliffs on the one, swinging old clubs like madmen, clubs we found at the front street thrift store, where every day finds the fifty per cent off sign in a crooked red balance on the window sill, the same day you waited outside while i ran in and bought the blue dress in the window, and the blonde haired hooker who hangs out with me at the laundromat, i read, she chats idly. in the sun, in the hot room of windows and those benches and the young mexican mothers with their cartoon character baby blankets, my abductor and his ghost bride who looks just like me. she steals a one dollar t shirt, but smokes eight dollar cigarettes, bought and sold here, what i wouldn't give to see your face before the hard edge took you, to touch one last time the boy you were

like icarus falling, the glowing white sphere carves a promised arc towards the water, and disappears