"what's that flaming cathedral in the distance?"
this road winds like yarn. triangles and spirals and
houses clustered like apartments, apartments spread
like ramblers. Ropes around a narrowing hill.
When we talk about the city, we talk about The City.
Everything I know about this place I learned in
documentaries about Jefferson Airplane and
the film Basic Instinct.
"you went to the mission and you got
tacos?"
a thick film of glass when we get over the
bridge from east bay, and the way that
everyone says "east bay" like a sentence,
after the show that starts awkward and ends
triumphant, the uber driver says "the city"
and the entrance feels like one
like it should, no long suburban
depression trailing into density,
too tired and building weary to
recognize.
This is not a poem about
san francisco,
it's a poem about knowing nothing
about it, but the hill, the
sillhouettes at midnight after
Oakland ends for us. It's about the imprint,
the "in a few years will Seattle seem--"
the new space forever,
frozen pizza thawing, the smell of
burning pepperoni spilling out into
the bay.
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