I saw you bought that house I loved
on the hill, off Doheny, hard to get to
during rush hour or when the veins of LA
burst and bleed all over West Hollywood
and gush through the Bel Air gates.
The skin of my inner wrists
with her oxygen-blue undertones
(soft contemporary design)
is up for sale too.
Ten million or best offer
(like the house on Doheny)
plus, realistically, another million or so
to meet your execting standards.
How deep, my Darling,
are your lightless pockets?