It’s summertime, but not a summer in
San Francisco. Summer is the reset
Sprint in the making, but, without
Heat, it loses its temper. It becomes the fall
Of many blue, bounded, burdened, and
Excavated, depleted past but is
Relieved in the fashion of the city’s coolness.
I walk by the same sweatshirt from
The earlier year; it becomes nothing
But, a piece of fabric. Like the song,
Used to shatter, now does not stir
A drip. The piddling
Bits, question the origin, demand, the convincing.
To convince, I have to look at you in the eye.
To convince, I have to touch, the surface of the earth.
The unsettled, want to be assured.
Unnerved, I, want to be assured.