Nostalgia is a trail
of pine needles,

this heart could split
with the love in it.

Nine cookies left
and an empty butter dish,

caseless pillows,
the swirl of laundry,

the way you looked
over your shoulder

as you left,
and both of our knowing ~

we are all
passing through.


City. Night.

Electric nightlights
ripple concrete rainwater
and a man lies tight

to the wall,
all huddle and tatter
and ankle crossed

sneakers protruding
from shrouds.  Ride up
into nighttime lifetimes,

past yourself
walking arm and arm
beneath the wistful

magnolia. They say
the streets of San Francisco
hold more lives

because of these hills,
even your tonight
body conducted

along forgotten wires,
and though you cannot
see the black water

that surrounds you,
you recognize
the days washing out

under the red bridge,
each weary breath,
each eager step

as you climb
higher and higher
into the city night.