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The Sands of Hope Were Never a Reality

You are the sand dunes
of old San Francisco
with no roadways or
byways to make the
journey in.

I trek the distance
and get lost in your
vastness
attempting futilely
to grab you with
my hands.

I do this seven days
a week
even in my dreams
where you persist with
vigor
as I stretch out
behind your peaks

Fine grains slip through
my fingers
daily
And I mourn a loss
that was never a
possibility

your peaks still
rising.

----------

How can I name
this time and
place that feels
infinite

lost in a web of a
gutless beast--

I can't see here

where the dizzying
heat makes a steep
walk even harder.

Savior
in this lack
of time and place
No library can
tell me how to
work with you

All those past
heroes
who are they?
What passion
could I hope
to ignite in
oversized
corduroys
on a Saturday?

How many worlds
away are you from
my reality

mirage in
the face
of time?

----------

Beauty
for you
comes easy
even in old
blue jeans
with paint splotches
on them

None of this is
rehearsed

But mine is
a closet of
choices
that repeats
itself
weekly

Hard work
that can't
dream to be
more than
mediocre.

"You can't be good
at everything,"
you tell me.

I'd like to
forget that
proclamation
for a moment
and dream
that I can be
good

at something
such as
you.


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