Not Spotless

Beauty is the sky
reflected in the puddle
at the gas station in Tahoe,
gravel and mud inset with
a pure blue portal.

Beauty is the junk
floating like a fleet
on the waves at Bodega Bay,
bottle barges and tampon kayaks
and troughs slicked with rainbows.

Beauty is the sun
reflecting off the bug guts
and bird poop
on the cracked windshield,
black sticks of bug legs
and water spots like cheetah’s fur,
turned to white dwarfs and comets.

The Plexiglas asterisk where a rock had hit
like the inside of a marble, still swirls of silver,
exploded in a nova
as we rounded the hills
warm and golden with summer grass.

The redwoods, brown fingers reaching,
canopied the twisting road
from the glow of the Napa sun
in the dozy summer evening
and became the cold dark behind stars.


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