He has her Pull the car off The coast road Glitter of piss On poison oak He pictures Its itchiness climbing The amber parabola He lobs disdainfully Into the bush The eucalyptus Aren’t native To this place either They poison the ground Around them Grow in lonesome groves Their flesh is always Peeling off Like women who pick Their faces in mirrors Or men who embarrass Themselves In the parking Lots of bars Years later And far inland A man who once Knew happiness but didn’t Recognize her face Remembers Out of the literal blue How they smelled in rain