Hymn for the Last Town

I will die in Los Angeles during the first rainfall
in ages, on the day the cacaloxuchitl seeds decide to sprout,
on a day that comes to me often. I will die
in Los Angeles, and although now I am frightened,
that day will wash over me and cleanse me
of the damp stench of wild dog, my mouth full
of sand treaders and my ears that have welcomed
the bounty brought in by the briny tide, the black
opal of shells I have collected on these and those
shores and surely on a Tuesday—my favorite day
to set my shoulders to the devil, to expose the pale
of my neck to the palm trees and their long yellow sun.