by Larry Narron

On that street again where,
each night in high school,
I took out the trash
from the diner at closing,
I wandered downtown
at dusk beneath the sun-
faded canopies as another
Santa Ana sunset dissolved
in its flames.

                           In the orange
light turning red, the soft voice
of a woman grew steadily louder
as it seemed she approached me
from somewhere ahead,
as I walked closer to her  
when suddenly the storefront of
the Christian Science Reading Room
was before me, empty except for  
her face aglow in the screen
of the TV that hung   
from the ceiling.

                          What she said
through the glass was unknowable
with her voice turned down low,
though soothing as if
through the walls of a womb.

Larry Narron is a graduate of the University of California, Berkeley. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Phoebe, Eleven Eleven, Whiskey Island, Midway Journal, Permafrost, Owen Wister Review, The Boiler, and other journals. He will soon be teaching his first class at Pacific University in Forest Grove, Oregon, where he recently received an MFA in poetry.