Billboardbird

In a night
of October fog
I dreamed
of a black bear
under the moth-spotted streetlights.

​

Atlanta is everywhere I look.
The glow of yellow comes from
behind my eyes,
but the red comes from ahead.
Atlanta is made of bold lines
and primary colors.
Los Angeles is of a softer color
and blurred edges,
yellows
and browns,
full of gray spaces. 

​

I walk the shadowless hills.
The fields 
of Quilotoa green.
I sit with my shoes turned up in the dust.
The ladybirds climb their stalks.
Red is a primary color.
Where are the ladybirds now? 

​

A washed-out yellow sky.
Pink eyeshadow winking at the backseat driver.
A beautiful sunset.
A night of toxicity.