Culture of the Underground

City sick with July mist

I’m in the Mission. Birds fly in formation over head.

The city is my lover, as well as its men

Fate, a sanguine movement about him, barely can hold himself up in rain-soaked bliss

They say it’s foggy here, but Carl seems to be dissipating

Themes in poetry make patterns on my skin

Black horses pull at me while deluded horses talk about heroin addiction

Why do the hills climb as they do?

My dearest Evelyn, your pale, freckled skin,
I smell the scent of lilac on it again