It’s a postcard

It’s a mango from a sunnier land

It’s an endless avenue with a few trees

It’s a dense neighborhood

It’s a vague intensity

It’s Americana

It’s the Chicago of Los Angeles

It’s the pop singer of the moment

It’s nothing to you

It’s nutty, sweet

It’s a booth in a corner

It’s a baby’s breath

It’s a stickler for detail

It’s a tawdry purplish bruise you can’t figure

It’s a species of fish

It’s a rudimentary conception

It’s route 66 dust in your eye

It’s a tooth in your hand

It’s my issei farmworker grandparents

It’s their whole generation, come and gone

It’s their whole world, come and gone

It’s their children, gone

It’s generations gone

It’s never coming again

It’s a marker, a note

It’s forgotten

It’s “don’t worry about it” (whatever it was about)

It’s an afternoon in Lincoln Heights

It’s a dream

It’s not raining, it’s not windy

It’s a raven looking at us

It’s a raven flying down to inspect the picnic table at Henninger flats above the San Gabriel Valley

It’s the twins—nobody & somebody

It’s who we said hello to and hugged at Gronk’s opening

It’s who we did and didn’t talk to (we didn’t go to the patio, drink wine and check our phones)

It’s 2 trees that are nothing alike except they are there, they were there

It’s two nearly identical (they appear exactly identical) manuscripts, placed side by side

for verification, but actually, this occurs in a dream (again, working assiduously in a dream)

It’s something we did, or didn’t do

It’s happy birthday to you (so what if it’s not your birthday)

 

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