A year of rain in an hour.
Then dawn. On the Quikcrete
patio a leaden mirror.
The jelly palm’s big fronds
flap like bad wings.
“Jelly Palm.” A truly ugly day,
reefs of cloud
scud off the ocean to decay.
Even Paul and Frankie get bitter
and prankish: they devour the butter
quietly as we have neutral sex,
later claw the pleated blinds.
Naked we watch leaves
of different sizes whirl
around the yard—as a gust
shudders the bougainvillea,
shakes down green lemons
that roll into Sunset Street to get squashed.
At five I pour a tarry pinot and flutter
through excellent reactionary novels
as in preparation for your meta-analysis
you fold grotesque methodologies
into the catholic pallor of Excel.
The murky light drains again,
When you touch the remote—
svelte as a credit card—
six candles sputter on
and we glance up at each other
before sinking down,
further than before.