Burn my pyre on the smooth,
eternal green of our Padres. 
See if you can fill a row
with ones I helped or loved 
or else did not drive hard 
away. Release a snow of 
paper seagulls and know 
when I said sorry, I meant 
a roaching sorrow. Then, in 
the middle of the benediction

The Blue Angels!

Rending heaven like new bread, 
their patriotic yawp repeats as
you descend those concrete steps. 
And in the glow of one another you 
forget I was so loud and prodigal.