this might be a bad title

somewhere over the rainbow

myth rolls up the California coast, a cold front
fogs the tinderbox hills around the city,
freezes their dreams into nightmares of lightning
& fires – whose smoke, seen from afar, appears
golden, a special effect projected off mirrors
east of the valley, still showing the way west
where it leads to what was believed to be the sun
when the state remained the only daytime star:

a destination etched on fences in Texas, final
highway exit sign embossed in gold, a secret
unmarked milepost west of San Francisco,
a floating stage made just for us to play ourselves,
a point beyond now, in the glow of a spotlight
sunset, an overripe orange under grey
inflated clouds the color of war – the weather
turns suddenly worse, beacons recede into dark,

capsize the dream beneath cumulonimbus
that wave like a flag over ocean, an ultimate
sign from the site of the wreck, where armies
of poets reassemble, sunk to the sea bottom,
breathing through each others’ mouths bubbles
filled to bursting with words of assent, a violent
yes to becoming more than strangers here,
washed up on shore, each in our own California.