Another cool, gray San Francisco day
,July, toward the end of the world.
I will never see clearly again
except through glass. I’ll
walk ‘til my legs give out, I suppose,
looking hard at the outside of things.
Love will be my mantra
‘gainst all this American suspicion, hate,
and self-repression. By tomorrow
you’ll have forgotten you ever read this
but I’ll remember that you did.
I’m the archivist of nothing in particular.
July, 5th, 2016