The West is no longer a frontier,
Nor are we pioneers of the edge of this flat world.
Nestled in a valley below the Pacific winds,
The City of Angels stretches on for miles.

Do you want to go back there with me?

We could take a boat out past the jetty,
Past the pier and churning shore.
Turn and look back at twilight,
On what has become this so frequented land.
The water is dirty as I bob amidst the kelp and brine.

Come back with me, please.

We could erase our names and start again with some new fortune.
So when we turn and life is hurricane as tumultuous as life can be,
We will be within its eye,
assured that the body of some laughing child
Was not dashed against the rocks decades ago.