Alone now in San Francisco. Thin cloud rusting
over Bernal Hill, garlic simmering
in the pan, lavender potted and long dead
in the breezeway. I start the water,
carry the milk crates in from the garage.
You with your mother in Los Angeles.
The lanterns we scavenged and hung
at the ceremony now a soft racket
in the magnolia. Me turning an old
summer over, the one where we slept
most nights in a park in Hartford,
bedded down in the soaked grass.
The local kids coming always after dark
to tag the pumphouse, sling rocks
at the heron cages. Their bright
startled cries and us burrowing deeper
in our bags. I start unshelving
my books, fitting them side by side
in a crate. How one time a guard
came hollering, whipping his light
over the lawn and they took off, ditching
their backpacks, the cans, their names
silvering the brick. We watched
as they tore down the moonlit hill,
headed for the coupe they stashed
at the turnoff, bare legs flashing, the guard
close behind as they vaulted the fence
and hit the blacktop sprinting,
picking up speed—the two of us clutching
at each other, wincing, whispering.
You saying you hope they get busted.
Me hoping they get away clean.