Californian roads heron into themselves, head below knees, head into the river for something to eat. The crest road is on the valley road. Naked in the chaparral, the fire trail also is on the wide river walk, and on the braid of river.

Now in the rain the eucalyptus trunks turn the color of sweet potato flesh. They are inside the olive leaves. The black burned ruins and the green fast brush around them open their heads like baskets over the low herbs, which are loud in the cold air. These distinct places are one place which comes to itself. Somewhere the coyotes hurry, uncomfortable, wet like bleach-damaged hair gets wet. They pass their paws out in front of their bodies.

In my dream I go down on two men, one living one dead, standing together. The dead man is teaching the living. The living man looks down on me with a desire attenuated into an expression of unhappiness. The dead man knows how I like it. The dead man puts his thumb inside my mouth.

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