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like a diver with strong kicks surfacing or a colt being born shaking off the webbed sticky placenta to stagger around hungry, insulted, more than a little drunk, I drive my fury upward out of L.A. I had forgotten the face of reality, the blue-eyed sky uncompromising as a stripper – wisps of cloud stuck here and there for propriety failing to hide the fact there will be no rain molten air flows against me – I can't breathe for heat can't see for brightness, yet I've reached a conclusion after 13 years chasing what wasn't there – staring into the sun won't blind me © 1990 by Beth Stevens |