Those Santa Ana winds

hungover sky & downtrodden self
masked in the promise of dawn.
the city stinks of broom & fennel.
moonlight glints unsteadily
across surf-ridden beach.
in the windows of a bus
a woman in black velvet
coaches her frisky doberman
cautiously off.
a 5-piece band howls insomniac
under dark banks of tree & wall.
trench-coated boy steals
a handful of sand from a vacant lot
to trace his way home.
slipping between clouds
a pale woman sings
(wrinkled with anxieties
her version of californian
auto-depression)

‘bearing death as a part of oneself
is not an easy or forgettable process.’