The deep brain insists: adaptation
carries one only so far. Thus
only through aquarium glass is the
octopus a metaphor, does the neon-blue
stingray circumnavigate the central atrium
with a doggedness bordering on obsession.
Should you mourn the plight
of black cherry trees, their piteous decline
for luxurious cabinetry, consider instead
our eviction notice, the neighbourhood
in transition, in which direction
remains to be seen. I was inside
the traffic circle and you were outside.
We waved and called. Would you wear a scent
called Japanese Woodland Peony? I thought not.
On the side of the Coit Tower
where the Golden Gate Bridge dominates the skyline
the windows are locked.
I grew up in a dark place
but I had aspirations. Summer
was a glistering
one-dimensional affair, the air still,
twilight mystical, its length unanticipated,
fireflies and I in sole possession of the meadow.