I swallow my last mandarin bubbles and carry
the bottle to Ocean Avenue, where the bin
has been knocked over, bent. Garbage suns itself
on fresh asphalt: chicken bones, fry boats, white daisies
covered in ketchup. Four skid marks. The church bell tolls
and double-parked cars melt away. Tomorrow
the bare bright circle will remain. The scrapyard
I must imagine. The furnace.