Ripped bare
the clouds above California
have burned to waste
from their film
inward
thinking about
Hemingway while
I walk my dogs
thinking about
Ask The Dust
and Fante's
inimitable beauty
of language
and the way they both
went out
the beard ate a bullet,
and diabetes took
away the living heart
of Bandini,
took from him
his warm blood
that became mine
and many other
writers' reason
to keep pushing
the sky burning
blue
the fur of my
dogs getting warm
I stop and feel the
street and it's still
cool enough for
their little paws
and my warming
skin
watching the Sun
up high
and remembering
nothing at once
then everything at once
and across the street I watch
two yoga moms stretching
and bending
shoving it high up
from their palms
their shoulders
beneath a bright sky
devoid of clouds
ripped bare
of Bandini
and the
old man.