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.