She calls me from San Francisco,

her voice full of fog

and the Pacific’s vast

inscrutable self-reliance.

I recall pressing mollusk shells

up to my ear as a boy

and pretending the noise in my head

was an ancient transmission

from Panthalassa

or at least Lake Superior.

My father once told me

it was the sound of my blood,

but he was wrong.

On the west coast it’s always

three hours ago,

the day forever full of promise,

but here it’s the end

of another long afternoon of not knowing

who I am when I’m alone.







Photo by Cristi B