Wednesday, July 6, 2016

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
San Francisco