The Yosemite still stands
Solid in mother’s hands
When the air above her is sick
And the city still gleams
In the echo of screams
Of a concert full of sad people
Instead of obsessing over the answers
I need to bathe in the question
A psychic told me I need to learn to trust
I’m heading for Maine
From a city I have no name
I think I’m looking for a certain silence
I’m more than a poet
Maybe a pimp for letters?
I’ve always been drawn to sex
I don’t know where I’m going
I think that’s the point
The sky looks like a friend