Los Angeles hums br a little tune -- br trucks down br the coast road br for Monday Market br packed with small faces br blinking in the dark. br My mother dreams br by the open window. br On the drainboard br the gray roast humps br untouched, the oven br bangs its iron jaws, br but it's over. br Before her on the table br set for so many br her glass of fire br goes out. br The childish photographs, br the letters and cards br scatter at last. br The dead burn alone br toward dawn.