The gestalt chap-
parral, post-Feb-
ruary rain, 
mists above Sun-
set Boulevard: 
The hills blink 
alive: White 
ceanothus
face the low 
sun so the hill-
side’s sil-
ver-gold. Can-
yon wrens chitter 
in relentless packs 
through the sage,
hunting as Los 
Angeles 
falls through space 
into a far
distant haze.
From here, 
you can see 
the edges of things
the injurious margins:
sea / shore, hill / trail, 
river / bank , city / park;
we push past 
this, past 
even an ar-
bitrary half-way 
point, to the trail 
end, even though
we know 
we’ll turn 
and then awkwardly 
come back 
the way we 
came, enjambed, 
exhausted, numb
with wolf miles.
As we crest-
ed the last crest, 
I hes-
itated—as if 
sensing an event,
something moment-
us—looked down 
at my feet: 
A glossy-perfect 
black lizard 
tail, the break 
still pink 
with a dot 
of white bone,
curled into a
a question mark 
floating on caliche, 
[ ? ]
missing its matter, 
perpendicular point 
stopping me
rhetorically, 
so oblique,
so open-
ended. . .

I know
I can’t know 
but I
ask anyway: 
What happened?