The Berkeley hills, last night: rain poured out of the fog like from a river—tore up roots and washed leaves and worms into the street. The worms, wet and willful, squirmed and inched over the pavement like living filaments, iridescent and scared. Lightning.
A car drove closer—I heard nothing through the downpour—and its headlights illuminated the texture of fog. Crawling, it bounced through a rain-full pothole—the pool spread, contracted—and passed. Raindrops jumped in the hole-pool—in the air over the street—everything red in the back-car-light.
Night.
A car drove closer—I heard nothing through the downpour—and its headlights illuminated the texture of fog. Crawling, it bounced through a rain-full pothole—the pool spread, contracted—and passed. Raindrops jumped in the hole-pool—in the air over the street—everything red in the back-car-light.
Darkness.
I walked to a glow—a streetlight—and stood in the gold-white rain, soaked and breathing:
"Green is Gold"Night.
Lightning illuminates the rain like a camera flash captures
a picture all of San Francisco admires
at once,
a still-frame shot of
love of violent wind, unframed,
named by parents ‘unsafe’ and teenagers ‘the night I totaled my
body.” Exposed limbs of eucalyptus trees crack and burn despite
the wet
leg I slip into your car, soaked,
thrilled,
No comments:
Post a Comment