In Chandler Country, by Dana Gioia

California night. The Devil’s wind,

the Santa Ana, blows in from the east,

raging through the canyon like a drunk

screaming in a bar.

The air tastes like

a stubbed-out cigarette. But why complain?

The weather’s fine as long as you don’t breathe.

Just lean back on the sweat-stained furniture,

lights turned out, windows shut against the storm,

and count your blessings.

Another sleepless night,

when every wrinkle in the bedsheets scratches

like a dry razor on a sunburned cheek,

when even ten-year whiskey tastes like sand,

and quiet women in the kitchen run

their fingers on the edges of a knife

and eye their husbands’ necks. I wish them luck.

Tonight it seems that if I took the coins

out of my pocket and tossed them in the air

they’d stay a moment glistening like a net

slowly falling through dark water.

I remember

the headlights of the cars parked on the beach,

the narrow beams dissolving on the dark

surface of the lake, voices arguing

above the forms, the crackling radio,

the sheeted body lying on the sand,

the trawling net still damp beside it. No,

she wasn’t beautiful--but at that age

when youth itself becomes a kind of beauty--

“Taking good care of your clients, Marlowe?”

Relentless the wind blows on. Next door

catching a scent, the dogs begin to howl.

Lean, furious, raw-eyed from the storm,

packs of coyotes come down from the hills

where there is nothing left to hunt.

From “Daily Horoscope” by Dana Gioia (Graywolf Press: 94 pp., $9.95) Copyright 1997 Reprinted by permission.