It hisses and I cannot tell
whether it will rain or
if everyone is in a hurry
Things bustle and stop on cue
for only seconds every minute or two,
and yet in the standstill I only know what I feel
and cannot determine what to say
I seem to remember this from times
since gone tumbling forward
as I backtrack with every step
and try to conjure from the ether
where I have done this before
The crooked window frame
and the cramping, closing space
paints the same picture, only to be fogged over
with gloom caught in the marine layer
like a widow's web
Author notes
San Francisco, you inspire me so--and yet, why can't I write like I used to?
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