Even the air, the light feels new.
The dark matte finish on the boxcars idling under the freeways.
The freeways spinning wildly above, out of control.
A memory of trees singly and in clusters silhouetted against the orange nightglow.
The man in the loose T-shirt walking by is not aimless; he is headed to the United Pacific lot to gas the cars.
Everywhere work, movement, Cokes.
Cattails in a clump in a depression around the highway supports.
So many words for so many flowering things.
A certain tiredness, joy.
Is description ever a way out of a conundrum?
If not, be cursi if you want, not like anyone is watching.

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