My colleagues, the seven hills of San Francisco.
Memory, like a long, white glove taken off
during a strip-tease. Feelings, a rusting
trumpet cased up in the attic. Sooner than
the forehead becomes a parquetry of time,
I fall to the dust. Exhaustion
is actually subtle, comes faster with
stability. Shake things up and life is a
joyride but where did it go? Tranquil
jonquils on the veranda. A slippery
bass tugging at the tow. The bliss
of a full weekend actively engaged
with intimates, sensory overload,
friendship done enough to eat,
an almond tart at a newly-encountered
bakery. I love this city, I fall in love
often. Today, again, with the man
of my heart. Always something
delectable in the fog sifting through
the Financial District,
romance and capitalism can thrive
together. Like now, all I see is
blue. Then home to mull over
the dirty carpet, unable to yet
clean for fear of ridding myself
of all signs of parties awkward
and ecstatic. Laundry
instead, a few poems, congeries
to this and that, a tribute to
all things remembered and
forgotten.
