Northwest

When I think about how much of my adult life is

long walks home from work



tired over bridges, crossing streets to make connections

but forgoing the crowded bus



for today’s air



along a street that is a ridge overlooking the bay

closer to the pines



or now up hills past defunct storefronts

from this city through the ocean to a place where I only sleep



hardly

waking up late, rushing to wait, running to sit

wondering outward at so many different, complicated patterns of land



it seems like all my thoughts happened then except one

which is looking out a car window



emerald embedded in a foothill’s fold



none of my friends would believe the beauty on the fast highway

licking a tempo stripe after stripe after stripe



the wet metal taste of rivers



potato salad fed to me by a strange mother

a recipe I’ll always be trying to recreate



I only cry because I can’t paint.




I sit up desperate at night.




How green it was.





The iron smell.






Trumpeting








mountains.









How cold










and gray












the sky














and

















sea.