I almost lived here. 

Concrete foundations hold up air 
for now-vacant lots 
whose roads—somnolent snakes 
stretching past long dunes—
have been still enough for weeds 
to penetrate, 
run down cracks, dark-green stigmata. 

I’m a ghost between worlds. 

One foot in grass, 
the other tottering on cracked cement, 
I look for brick and stone 
where our family living room would’ve been, 
feel a gentle flutter 
in place of an ocean swell seen through windows 

while Santa Monica Bay 
shines like wet paint, 
a deep blue that pales as waves crest, 
a faint olive not far removed 
from the weathered green on chain-link 
which has stood over a half-century 
down Pershing, 
along Vista Del Mar. 

Angels masquerade as street lamps, 
wield yellow flames 
which cut fog at the hour of the dead. 

Did they pave Paradise, bulldozing homes 
like wisdom teeth in a crowded jaw 
leaving bare bone—vacant land? 

Now people plant buckwheat 
to lure butterflies back. 
Reseed the sage brush, goldenbush, primrose, 
poppy and salt grass uprooted 
when the houses intruded. 

The sun hemorrhages, collapses 
into swells against a steel breakwater 
salt-scarred black and orange, 
the breakwater’s wooden top-beam a snapped bone. 
A jet claws skyward. 

An Easter Lily crawls toward Calvary 
through devil grass 
while palm trees line the main drag 
for a second coming 
of El Segundo blue butterflies. 

Another sunset 
I’ve watched as long as I could drive here, 
my dad’s dream of a beach house, 
among 800 knocked down, 
leaving me to wander the perimeter—

a pilgrimage between generations. 

—Published previously in Yungkans’ first chapbook, Colors the Thorns Draw (Desert Willow Press, 2018), and appears here with his permission.

*Epigraph is from Mike Anton’s article “LAX ghost town a home to memories and rare butterflies” (2 March 2013; updated 24 May 2025); link retrieved on 8 September 2025:
https://www.latimes.com/local/la-xpm-2013-mar-02-la-me-surfridge-20130303-story.html

Bio: Jonathan Yungkans