Dawn in Topanga—last day.
I stand at the edge of the property, an old chain link fence beyond which
there’s just canyon and more canyon,
slopes & folds enveloped in bright marine fog
impossible gradations of slate, silver, white
fuzzy Rothko-esque layers,
the barest suggestion of Pacific fathoms beyond, below
Sitting with pencil poised over paper
I wish things would come through clear
A fine line reveal itself
The ocean appear, unambiguous
I look down, tired of squinting
A drop of coffee slops on my page like a Rorschach blot--
What do you see?
What are you looking for?