The sky opes its mouth.

Clouds burp out.

I smell raspberries. I taste

soot. I hear

silence. I touch

your face. I see

persimmons ripening.

I taste melancholy. Bernie Sanders

flies over LA. If I stand on my toes

I can just barely touch his shoe.

My hand avoids

your face. Dogs surround the tree,

sniffing at its bark. The tractor

trailer sails through the miasma.

No way is he gonna be president.