Then you went home.
In the hallway
was a spray of immortelle
and tuberoses,
and I gave her my thanks.
We lay together on the roof,
kissing in the sun,
spilling things
and laughing at our audacity.
Very Californian.

I loved her husband too.
Poetry and foolery.
I went to market with her.
Poetry and childishness.
His stereo. Her flowers.
First time being high made sense?

I'm doing well, not missing you.
But it will be colder soon,
at least as cold as it gets there.
I'll have to get my leather coat
out of hock, or borrow a car.

Hello from Michael, Laurie,
and Sarah who brought you flowers.
I think her parents liked me.
(I used to mow their huge lawn.)
She and I tried to make love
in her father's book-lined study
(I never looked at the titles!),
then could not in the joy of it.
Was she pregnant already?
Um-hmm.

I don't have to tell you
how often I think of you...
Yes, you do. The calm here
is different, driven by
the hazy light, not the rain.

Do you remember we rolled
a bike wheel down Roosevelt Way,
getting it onto the bridge
unstruck by a single car?

The mornings here are unpinned --
the trees shed their skin...

Just now, at Ghirardelli Square,
the lights must be coming on.
The ageless city drifts away,
refracting whiteness.
Reminds me you're the still one.
That silence is perfection.
Then you can come home again.