Magic Hour, L.A.

Magic Hour, L.A.

Magic Hour, L.A.

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.