Something’s missing in Los Angeles.
The nights swollen blue
with busyness. Not animals, not smells,
not shrieks across glowing pastures.
Just bus rides, so many bus rides,
and the dripping headache of the factory:
sewing, folding, sewing, folding.
There’s no room for ghosts
in all the noise, all the machines.
No spooks in alarm clocks and televisions
and microwave ovens. Midnight
never smiles or takes shapes and goes meddling
in the barn, rousing the horses. Dawn
comes before any ogres can take
her away. No need
to tie down the moon
to keep the night from ending.