Sunsets have fallen victim to subscription:
three dollars self-service paid
in exact change.
I watch ours through found hours,
fingers twined through yours,
misnomered as Pantone streaks the sky.
I saw us neutral and chaste in front of
a Malibu Metro PCS,
chain gas station, youth enamored,
unarmored.
In the dream house;
it falls together before it falls apart.
Cheap drinks and cheaper dates and
still cheaper thrills:
fully divorced from the bug-filled affairs
of baked sandy dunes,
bleached whiter here.
I’m not going to write another love poem
about something I made up,
something I saw fabricated after the fact
from a landlocked beach.
That’s just a desert.
