You couldn't have sent me a better picture--San Francisco bay before the bridge. You claim the city as your home--its steep concrete hills protecting you from assailants and outside forces, but I claim the world beside you--I'm fog drifting through the woods on Muir beach--tenuous grey sweeping emotions tangled in the upper boughs of the redwood trees. There's a huge expanse of dangerous cold water between us--swirling currents swallowing other suitors valiant reaches towards you. But I can cross as long as the sun remains hidden. It burns me when its awake. If you stand on your heights can you see me, working my way towards you--sliding over the bodies drowned in the bay. I hope they never finish that bridge, because at present I'm the only one that can hope to reach you, and when the road is finished it will be eight lanes into your heart.
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment