The landscape riffs on what works where, Scrub brush dirt, scrub brush dirt, bougainvillea Pamplemousse-style on sandstone Declining to absorb The blues and grays. It’s radio day at Hillside Elementary And the sea is tuning Its seriocomic static into a new life, A true light That comes in a little box In quantities of two or four. The salesman Resists the urge to alliterate. He’s picked up The idea that it makes him sound illiterate. He thanks his lucky day record He has the San Diego territory, The percentage of lounges He hasn’t embodied the spirit of error in here Is still high. He’s not high. The principal Is singing along with the hundred and one Strings, and the sea is staring Disconsolately at the closed-up little clubs That dot the roadside cliffs. That dot. That sweet and precious dot.