Cup in hand, its black concavity a mirror Which I gaze into, to reveal the today’s Fortune. Who will come and who will Go, hiding in the rattle of trams riding Up and down the hills of San Francisco?

Among the breakers of the bay, Mountains from the countries we had Planned to visit – Japan, Iceland, Chile - Part the waters. The tugboats sliding Them through the channel currents

Invisible though, in the rolling fog as it Clothes and unclothes the high span of The Golden Gate. A red steel cello concerto
You called it then, as Bach unraveled quietly Among disorder of our tangled clothes.

Sunday morning twilight it was then too. What light graces your face today in Anchorage, Under that northern sky? The saint’s mute Figure on the mantle doesn’t answer, his neck Tilted, I guess, under the weight of frangipanis

You had strung up for all of us to wear: Francisco, me, you, your black eyed pup. Among the stigmata of your love that have Remained: this clay statue, these withered Flowers, this coffee cup prediction of another Empty day filled with thoughts of you.