Fog so heavy
it wept
the dust from my windshield
/
what I’d carried with me,
wore on me,
up and over
a road soggy with night—
always becoming, becoming
just up ahead.
/
So this is driving
across the Golden Gate—
yellow halos,
the swallow of white,
pillars into nothing,
and beyond
the railings—black, black,
the hiss of black
underneath the stereo speakers,
whispering, “this is the end
of the continent”
/
and you can’t even see it.
Image may be NSFW.
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Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
