Ocean Park #17, 1968: Homage to Diebenkorn

What I remember is a carhop on Pico hurrying Toward a blue Chevy, A crucifix dangling from its rearview mirror That jiggled as the driver brushed A revolver against it, in passing, before tucking it Behind his back & beginning to joke with her. What I remember Is the smooth arc the gun made & the way Jesus shimmied to the rhythm. • Someday I’ll go back to the place depicted By the painting, boarded over by the layers of paint And abandoned, And beneath the pastel yellows I’ll find The Bayside Motel & the little room With the thin, rumpled coverlet, And sit down, drinking nothing but the night air By the window, & wait for her to finish Dressing, one earring, then another, And wait until the objects in the room take back Their shapes in the dawn, And wait until Each rumpled crease in the sheets & pillowcase Is as clear as a gift again, & wait — At a certain moment, that room, then all the rooms Of the empty Bayside, Will turn completely into light. • I place a cup on the sill & listen for the faint Tock of china on wood, & ... That moment of light is already this one — Sweet, fickle, oblivious, & gone: My hand hurrying across the page to get there On time, that place Of  undoing — • Where the shriek of  the carhop’s laugh, And the complete faith of the martyr, as he spins & shimmies in the light, And the inextricable candor of doubt by which Diebenkorn, One afternoon, made his presence known In the yellow pastels, then wiped his knuckles with a rag — Are one — are the salt, the nowhere & the cold — The entwined limbs of  lovers & the cold wave’s sprawl.