I’ll return for one night, carrying you
papaya. Thickly cut. Resembling
driftwood scattered below the parking lot
I can see from Sacramento’s river bridges.
I’m taking I-5 south to 99. Cut tomato
skins roll in foil. My chest
drops like ocean swells I could only
see once a year. Don’t watch
me as I’m dying. Say Mt. Shasta’s sudden
rain fills the sky. A soul of mine
lost itself deep in Valley dirt. Maybe
it’ll escape tonight. Let me call it.