An Aubade

She said what about San Francisco? Another

second chance. There would be bridges "shrouded

in fog." Streets "pregnant and glowing" with traffic.

Dawn, she didn't know, would maybe "draw near."

He said dawn draws near everywhere. She said

a city but a city close to nature. A backyard

scattered with birds he wouldn't be able to identify

and something exotic rotting. Avocadoes.

They'd play a game on the bridge, she'd lose

control of the car, he'd kick her foot away

and mash the gas pedal to the floor until she

screamed and they'd have a name for the game

and later it would be a story for their kids if

they had any kids later. But no city is close to nature.

Her body is a white slash beneath the green sheet.

Or "a sterilized instrument." Last night's wine dregs

are both "the color of the valley as it ignites"

and in fact that color. He pulls the sheets from her

again and says he'll cut their coffins from

a wazi'hcaka even if it leaves a gray jay homeless.

The lumber's astringency. Fuck guacamole.

Deep in her knots and sap. Faster and faster. Second

nature. And now a different dawn drawing near.