City of Angels

A Poem

To drive, endlessly.

Look at the sky.

It’s so orange.

Why is it so orange?

To drive, endlessly.

Into the fire,

The hills that are boiling;

The end that is nearing.

To drive, endlessly.

Like a lone coyote, slinking

Through the desert

As night winds howl.

To drive, endlessly.


As North as you can go.

So the fire doesn’t reach you so quickly.

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