7.26.17

Morning comes.

This window gives out

onto the beach, where water

tremendous in its reach

kneads the shorelines smooth

of imperfections.

Except the place remains

like a stain of blood

against porcelain,

where the night before,

near the bleached skeleton

of driftwood

you struck me in the face

and called me, Brother.

Good morning,

you say, as I enter

the kitchen on a wave

of pleasant energy,

seven smiles from the others

and the smell of bacon

and coffee and fresh bread;

you forgot

they never knew

but I remember.

The left side of my face

is swollen, and Nolan

asks me what happened.

A bug bit me

I say.

A pesky spider no bigger

than a penny but with

fangs like needlepoints

and guts the color of

spilled

ink.

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Written at 12:19 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.