Somehow

Somehow, long after day has ended, the windows in the cafe
fog over just on the side facing the street—
as cars pass by, they glow and fade in the night window…

Somehow, three giant antennas, narrow pyramids of metal lattice,
pin the city’s edge to wilderness, the rolling hills and trees, and
announce the freeways, as the red lights atop them throb in the morning mist…

Somehow, on certain days, the whole ocean sucks up
into the sky, grey, and rushes out across the valleys
and everything and everyone sags, heavy in the day-lit fog…

Somehow, we’ll hurtle down streets tonight, the A/C clouds
the windshield, and the streetlights hum in brightness
while the roadsigns rise from the night, naked…

Somehow, I wake up before you, before dawn, and while I
ready coffee and wait for the mountains and our dog to awake I
let the smell of oatmeal blanket me as it steams from the cooker…

Somehow, I remember my grandmother’s house in winter when,
small enough to crawl next to the floor heating vent, air rushed past my hair—
and somehow, love, you are one of them, these subtle phantoms of season and memory…