The language of Los Angeles
gets lost in translation.
Even the rain clouds
drop their contents
with an unfamiliar accent.
The peculiar way
she tilts her head,
the distinct way
she crosses her legs,
are every bit incorrect.
The uninvolved way
she sits, steps, speaks,
alludes to her lack
of the irrepressible nature
surrounding her day.
"The rest is rust
and stardust."
She is quite
American.
There is no turning of the shadow
under a European sun.
The silence of her heart,
the stillness in her limbs,
is barren, muted,
her leaves brittle.
In the breezy part
of the afternoon,
her core lay hollow
and unfelt,
regardless of...
He wakes her,
demurely she makes
an effort at soixante-neuf,
arbitrarily she bends for him.
"Her dream-gray gaze
never flinches."
She is quite
American.