Seventeenth

Seventeenth

Seventeenth and Castro
And Market.
Parked at the corner’s corner:
Three flows converge
And I am here.

Breathing Whitman’s Song
Singing, weeping,
Quietly sobbing:
Reckoning a thousand
Acres; Earth-reckoning.

Neither beginning nor ending
Just sitting, Indian-styled,
Breathlessly choking:
Gargling to the hum:
The click clack and shuffle
Of foreign feet.

Everywhere and nowhere-
Wind, breath, urging:
Always the procreant urge of the world!