Near a stone kneeling down to meet my feet
my thoughts over our distant gaze
sensual as the mist kissing our faces of fog.
I couldn’t hear you then as much the lights from
the bright glass deafened and high tower bells
out of the sand where land should have been.
This concrete your feet click on doesn’t remind me
of anything. I like that.
Doors are pushing open and I will admit I believe
in something mystical, something stupid…
explained…well, explained… but your smell
it walks with me.
It takes a left on Divisadero and forgets to turn
on Powell and stares at a billboard J.D. Power and a fire
hydrant.
That’s what I…Love…weighted more
than snow for you.
By Robert Jameson
