JESSE GARCIA (amado Santos Jesus)

Perhaps you are typing at your desk, and have written
one long sentence, two short sentences, to find me
again. No, you're not there. This is my typewriter.

Or else, climbing the fence to that pool where we swam
in the dark, you have seen the same Los Angeles
night make white the same city sky above -

- but no, you and I of then are no longer the same.

Someone else hits my machine, these alphabet keys
clattering against the page, stealing
other poets' lines.

I was eighteen and nineteen at the University of California in Los Angeles and he was my best friend. Many years later I wrote this for him.