Magic Hour, L.A.
for Luke Davies
Maze-bright, sans GPS down Fairfax
in the Buick, when a thrash fiend
in a chrome Corvette salutes hang loose
then flexes a burnout as he peels off
Sunset; and as the strains of Anthrax
scatter in the wake of his goatee,
stars are smuggled in via the print
of Wonder Woman’s patriotic bikini.
Dusklit wildlife suffers no predicting:
a lobster juggles bibles unicycling
in the poorly lit scene of his mind,
a polymath samples his own urine,
while as on a folding screen depicting
notable scenes in feudal Kyoto,
a buff pimp in denim cut-offs blazes
drunk karate outside a 1 Hr Photo.
So we drive in silence, depending on
A Forest by The Cure for conversation.
It’s like Almendros said: magic hour
is really only twenty-five minutes max,
when the locust sun descending on
a field of bending wheat is prologue
to a tale stripped of all denouement,
and silhouettes are all our dialogue.