A furious cloud

infiltrates the placid sky:

seagulls like dead fish,

and they weep shit

onto the archaic,

splintering docks and

piers and wharfs.

The tree-infected
hills bulge like electric-blue veins
running in my crackling
wrists.

The sun shines vehemently.

The wide streets bend tortuously
under the weight of a thousand
strangers.

Someone lost the lottery,
someone puked there last night.

I might miss you

over there: passing by windows,

declining the doorways,

avoiding the blistering

mud of the former puddles,

recalling sunny sepia afternoons in your room,

looking out for the neighbors and the telephone's

excited cry.