I don’t know when I
can stop walking—nor
nearly the world round.
Darkness lights the face
of the Embarcadero and I’ve
wound round the advent of
autumn. The BART takes
me. I will breathe in and
cross the Charles. These
living room windows are
spotted – they dissolve day.
I can’t stop with my feet
nor the slump of watches.
When I warm my pockets
my feet are back up at the
audience, still walking
away. Someday I don’t
know poems, I’d rather
eat. On this day I prefer
a movie I argue about,
a place to be. It
tells me how flat my
life is. I don’t care.
Four books in my bag,
I walk the rain.
