*****

I'm pulled east from Santa Monica toward the beacon of First Interstate; office lights wipe in rain across the glass as I'm fed downward. I steer my own surrender north on the Hollywood, off on Silver Lake Boulevard, up the ravine.

Each street's a wrinkle stretched or strained. No hiding. Laugh lines, scars, life lines and futures, places that haven't been kissed for so long. New cuts open and are filled with those who'll take the least pay. Bundles sigh on warehouse docks on Industrial, indelible.

As I undress, the bright crown of the tower holds with its one red warning over the crest, reminds me there is a center. It sees me, too, as I set the alarm. Magnets draw, repel.

Finally stopped, the night suddenly clear, I can sort planes from stars, cats from sirens. Though I know there cannot be a place for restlessness, I collect all I can feel into passion for the city that takes me, moves me, demands I touch it here.

--Killarney Clary

Copyright c 1996 by Oberlin College. May not be reproduced without permission.