As I drive up the coast,
I see the little sparrow bodies
through the fences that line
the freeways. The crucifixion
of their brass-colored wings
still haunt. The mission
is miles behind me by now
and Los Angeles is nowhere in sight.
What should I be thinking of
as the swallows return
this time, or as I drive, or as the clouds
roll past my car as it hums?
Only Jesus, it seems--with
his cool, hippie beard and his
ancient, hallowed name--
comes to mind, though I suspect
he has also been left behind,
near the mission,
choking as he does
on the dust we become
and the pungent tang
of my Buick's black exhaust.
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