Los Angeles Days

( by Nick Mancuso )

is it
autumn or spring?
i no longer know.
the ceiling fan
turns
counterclockwise
in the isolation of your runners grace
do not buckle, the earth is sure
underfoot though the crumly hills
of st. andrea spin and crack
do not collapse with fright
tho night is falling
& the coyotes prowl the refuse
of our collected huts
the machine of cars
the madness of the wheel
that pumps iron and pumps oil
that burns the echoe of distant suns
do not think
there is no meaning
and no comfort
the aztec gods are with us still
& zeus and athena & aphrodite still
sings bush songs in the gathering hill.