Los Angeles in November: A Definite Maybe

A paper bag breaks, one you carried
by the handles, knowing they would give.
They give. The weight is gone.

A puddle will receive it. The electric light
reflected in the water ripples with the weight.
You, too -- give way. The weight, the apricots

go tumbling roly-poly toward the puddle
where the night was gathered in a mirror,
making itself conceivable: Los Angeles, collected

in a moment of electric light and water and the street.
Now what will you do? Release the bottomless.
No one at home will mind. No one was waiting for the weight.

You hold the handles to a lighter thing. Sure, you've lost
the apricots, now settled in water.
Someone will kick or eat them.