A money gesture called a wind
in her house
with the windows open on doubt.
Can you count the levers?
Some are in her hair.
Others belong to the season.
All for the use
of a baby born
with burnt fingers.
Two reasons with wine
and she was in the driveway
again. The cement was talking.
L.A. would make a change
for her. Tunneling under
the suburbs she caught
a wind in her hair
and it felt like money.
Not much of a desire
towards the war
or her own particular history.
Out beyond the airport
they were putting roses
on dreams.
The puddles grew soft
around the edges,
the levers went up and down,
sirens counted rain drops.