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, 5^th, 2016

San Francisco