row of violets
I left my clothing on the Moon. Little halos in the airport. Night driving through the orchards of Ceres, my father's ghost bent on the shoulder of the highway. He wiped Central Valley dust from the face of an old timepiece. He did not see me. But I think he knew I was there and gone. I need a bigger apartment to store the ruins of hospitals. I recall my sweaty reflection in slick, red curbs. The Asian woman sitting beside me on the train has no idea how quickly I memorized her. Many nights later, I'm still kissing her bare knees, her violet toenails. I am so ashamed of San Francisco. I want to let go and be released. Send my ghost north to Juneau, Fairbanks, or Anchorage. Wipe frost from a timepiece. Drink myself back to life.