Between Pacific Coasts
Promise Ring, The
30° Everywhere

Down the lane, I breathe out loud in half frozen air.
And the black amnesias in heaven are lighting a half moon on the stairs.
And I bite my lip when I breathe out loud.
Wrapped in Japanese paper all the way around.
California can't see the sun rise,
because smoke doesn't climb like it lingers.
Runs long on a broken lung.