After I See Your Post About Visiting L.A. I reach out– longing for connection. When surrounded by seagulls, I look for the first semblance of friend. Not that we have much to anchor anymore, conversationally. Dolzani’s English class. I didn’t read assigned books. Didn’t become The Old Man and The Sea. So many years to make safe passage. My voice was a heavy, closed hardcover, whispering through class as pages turned, and here I am, strange and estranged, gazing out over the Pacific, waiting for your response on my seashell phone. Any sign of humanity meant I would try. You never answer, anyway. I unmoor my flaming boat to the coming monsoon, scrape my hand against burning plank to gather first ashes. I write my name in soot. I hold my breath and swoosh into the next life: the hold-on-to-me, the help-me, the drive- aimlessly-through-your-twenties until arriving, at last, at another confused island, a new decade of drifting through cloudless nights.