The lower sky is filled with long horizontal architecture decks. That
dive into the upper sky, dove grey and pinking, like a sly schoolgirl.
Empty ghost-blue polygons above the parking structure. Cyanotic
underwings of the day, flags from a northern country.

My view is higher than it is wide. The fading star alleys whipped by
violent gusts that loft a plastic handle-bag up from the dumpster, and
knock down a metal ladder with a clatter, and snap the pennants like
spring blankets.

This kind of morning, blowing in on cold November winds, reminds me of
Sumerian mornings. The United States of Sumeria. How the wind must've
poured like endless surf across the endless alluvial plains outside sun-
dried brick houses. Ghosts of dead waves, the shades of ancient surf
thunder against my casements.

A sound like empty wagons rattling by outside, but it's just the six
pennants snapping wildly. And lonely peasants arriving up, driving up,
one an hour perhaps, to scour the dumpster for cans.

I'd like to figure out a new way to bring the scene outside into sharper
focus. A new Nerudan combination of words to transmit a newly born
metaphoric understanding. I fight all the words I've used before, and
also my faded sense of wonder. Looking outside, I become more interested
in the dumpster diver down there, with dark blue sweatpants and a warm
gray sweatshirt with a logo and "COYOTES" on it. Gray hair in a pony
tail, feet swinging up as he levers into the trash.

Perhaps he's chosen this as a way to be more in touch with the world. Be
more on the cold knife-edge of life. Invade the cold wilds of the empty
dawn in the time when ordinary humans are seeping awake — there must be
more than nothing in those jars. He's collecting the sweet suburban
dreams of the American workerconsumer.

They're the best kind, really, so full of endless, aching longing. He'll
put up those jars in the basement, like dandelion wine — at some point,
three years from now, what happens every day...he'll rustle the paper
with anticipation, forcing himself to wait until 3 pm, forcing himself
not to look at the clock, then wandering more and more quickly downstairs
to the cellar when the time comes — hold up a baby jar, pop the lid and
inhale — very sudden and subtle: a stranger's dream.

And now the sky is white-blue, clear, like a TV that's finally warmed up.
Down on the vestigal western horizon is a corona of orange dawn, rolled
away for the day. Time to shake awake, fasten flags and bells on the
warhorses, and accelerate into battle. But not me — I get to stay here
with my many jars and bottles.