Santa Ana

Holy Wood

Santa Ana wind, yes she comes
through giant fig, shaping them
this
Long
Desert
Wind.

The trees pick her up
past cars, faces washed out with cool air
Leaves and cells dancing this neon city

Invisible
Above the manicured.

Pulse.
Heated tarmac,
she stands
barefoot,
not of the screen

another
surface
Holy

And of the wild

Untameable
Los Angeles

cars move through her
invisible metronome

pace of the heart

you’re calling..

Above
Santa Ana
Santa Monica

She