I’m fond of the ones who leave never having said a word—
the ones who speak the silent language fluently
at the edge of the slippage between home and homelessness.
We struggle to escape the burning continent.
The city remains stoic—
the oldest appeals condensed on the shores of La Brea.
I think I can live with you beyond the repressed ruins;
having captured the soft knock, the distortion of joy,
a convergence of bone burning in ancient sunbeams.
Animatronic replicas explain all—
wondrous creatures without material needs, the heft of soul.