Los Angeles translates roughly
into a phrase about Iggy Pop and hairdressers
something of shopping carts
and running down a taxi cab
of typewriters and cigarettes
of the 1950s
of falling in love
it translates into a girl
and a tea garden
and the ocean
but not in that order
it translates into bicycles
and dinosaurs
and late night diners
into rumors of flight and parking decks
and palm trees
it translates into the disabled sun
into neon and asphalt and film
into the story of life after tidal waves
the story of naked bodies
translates roughly into
the beauty of angels