up treacherous stairs at the end
of January to sit in the hidden
room at the back of the Tap
where we question west elm
shelves the green-lit décor
a chicken bone and Catholic
school what I have learned
is instead of being funny
just talk about triangles
hanging on white walls
the weird will happen
math emotions a geometry
like which-year-Texas-
Instrument calculator
you wrote 80085 on
was it 84 was it 83
what I learned everything
is improvisational
the drink selection
the sidewalk ice the
weather our atoms
bouncing off each
other’s atoms in
quantum uncertainty
where will this go
if we sew shut our
fervent minds and
listen to what we
don’t know next
will ever happen,
ever
(originally published in Stickman Review, Winter 2022)
101
North on the 101 Toward Portland
One moment I am breaking– nearly
out of gas at Junctions Pass. Another
mile before construction stops me:
it’ll be a few, a truck has to load up.
The first pause on this day of near-
death began in San Francisco
on my sister’s couch– I shared a Lyft
to my car in Potrero Hill with
Amy– the same name as the girl
I left the day before, but I kept
going. Almost ran someone over.
Strayed near a swerving taxi off
the crosswalk. Lost attention when
a light turned green, ignored horns.
This crystal absent-mindedness–
too many things happening I
never had a chance to process
what I was driving from.
But how weeds grow on the
bark of redwoods. How some
hills are angled such that their trees
live sideways, and then you wonder
how they bear their own weight.
You just wonder.
(originally published in The Local Train Magazine, Summer 2020)