Tilden Park, Berkeley
I failed the test
by doing all the talking.
I thought it was some kind of translation
and couldn’t stop,
but now I wish I had your words,
so dangerous to come by.
They’ll never come again, not the ones
you had then.
The chord goes up in notes.
We’re walking by that same pasture of cows
like a couple of voyeurs.
They don’t appreciate our presence anymore
and seem to spray milk our way
or at least that’s what the breeze feels like.
There’s a motherland up ahead.
It ribbons through the eucalyptus.
A ribbon in her hair. That’s walking.
She won a staring match with rain
and never came back.
Asphalt blown to bits by grass.