According to the LA Times


So many people are dead in Los Angeles they’ve stopped

limiting how many cremations can be performed each day.

Even as the silt of our former neighbors drifts in the window’s corner

or settles in the spine of a palm frond, inside, we continue not to die.

The dog is nestled between us, oblivious in that warm territory

and our six lungs billow with sunlight, ash, the sweetstench

of jacarandas and morning breath.

Someone else’s memory catches in my throat, and I lift the white sheet

over us, greeding for borrowed breath, and another, and another

so that we may survive together, just like this.

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