Panacea

Now & again the turnstiles become disaffected.
Loyalties, incest, are best kept secret. That fire in this
station a year ago—it wasn't just municipal
perturbation that fueled the arsonist. The poor boy
couldn't help himself. Have a heart, call it current,
undertow. Now the faces riding by tell me about
night's sudden boom. Lights out across the city, until
I return to you.

Scared

Wheat grass infested the block. The city prefers it to
ivy, I guess. Last night I dreamt the Mission
careening towards Telegraph Ave. I tried to stay
healthy for you. Courageous, too. But waking late is
startling—the sun's at half-mast again. Six more
weeks of winter and motion sickness. My compass
spins violently.



Subterfuge

There's some artifice involved, naturally. Today's
absence of leviathan hasn't paved the way for
improvements in public transportation. The secret
flight westward. If the fog rolls out we'll be caught,
forget the calculations. Take the 33 Potrero, transfer to
the 38 Geary at Arguello. For now it appears the
crossing guard's tip has paid off. Da Vinci wrote
backwards.



Cocaine

Now the vainglorious cloud on which we are seated
has dissipated. Sorry, it's been a dream forged and
donated to the permanent collection. I have a
confession to make. This subversion is merely a
replica, the real one is too priceless for display. Kind
of like the way divinity can also be ugly. It is said that
Hera alone produced Hephaestus.



Fortitude

I found your number in my sock drawer. The fluff &
fold recently burned down. The natural response here
would be astonishment, when the seasons finally
change again. If the universe were any more vast I'd
never find my way back to you. As it stands, I like my
chances. The solstice is upon us.