What do worlds with no winter do,

Not burned pure by visions of light,

No clean slaughter-knife of cold

Carving away concupiscence?

What do worlds with no winter do,

No crystal branches, fairy-white,

No silky folds in the landgown,

No fallen stars flashing underfoot?

What do worlds do, always juicy

Brown and wet, lascivious green,

Palm-treed and sandy, oiled tanned,

Where every breath slips painless home?

They become California.