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A Daytime Beacon, # 1


Long-necked women of San Diego–egret-necked, feathered San Diegans. The smell of cigarettes at the Del Mar racetrack, the tile floor scattered with butts and sunflower seed shells and strips of forlorn paper. The bright glare off of cruiser bikes, sandal-pedaled, tanned skin. A sky so lagoon blue I’m forced to look down, at pavement, having forgot my glasses. I hear tennis balls knock against rackets, the noisy racket of the seabirds integrated with white sea-condos, planted, flowering, long-stalked women of the California Coast. Long and straight-haired, giraffe-naped girls in shorts and short-tops. The stringy kite-like manes of the horses galloping against and then with the convection breeze. Later, alone on a corner unable to look across, a black Mercedes pulls up along the curb. What I see unload with unnatural grace is half-woman, half-bird.


From → What's Ours

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