There is someone in Los Angeles who loves you
in the many states you’re in along the freeways 2 a.m.,
tinseled ribbons glittering white and red under the phosphorescent dark;
even buzzed and hopeless before the flat glow of a TV,
as you assemble defective furniture, grin and nod at the story
under your fingertips flying, as you sink back into the pillows
and grind your teeth to sleep. Back to the freeways
but never the right exit. Someone in Los Angeles
reads a book of theory and marks the margins
with her pen. The room is dim, she’s waiting for you
to change the bulbs.