Karen Weiser, p.3


The sprawl a faking structure cut into like cake and lifted out
organic and stream-like, winding over concrete.
I can recognize a biopsy of suburban uplift, fable covered
with surface skin of misrecognition; forget the legal codes
directing traffics of wealth from one generation to another.
There are two platforms to this level playing field.
In California the road slowly washes into the ocean, filling with fog
at night. Brown covers gray gravel when it rains falling falling
through the hairnet-covered boulders. The sea pulls us
into it, even ancient dirt, and root structures wind into clear air
off the cliff’s edge. Hesitate and they fade from visibility 3,000
miles away about to take apart time in fragile patterns—dowels
stacked into shape support invisibility—little abutments of a personal
narrative like pink tar points the way from where you were.
Made dirty on purpose, all forks are smoothed over; once decisions
are made those possibilities seal up the air. Look over a shoulder
the road snakes along, a stream, the force of nature behind it.