It was a lower-
Nob-Hill affair, no shower,
no grower, our arc
like an involuntary spit
at the urinal: a pull; a splash of blue.
How could one predict
cozy slurs over Sidecars,
Parliament of scowls at the Owl Bar?
But what I would have given. To be a lone,
r in his world! Compliant,
I measure attempts
at love against some fictive monster
alive. I lick a fleck of sleep from his eye . . .
The moon is a stye.
The foyer, my brightest star.
Help me down the line
of antibacterial goodbye.
The little black car on the screen is coming.
Randall Mann is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Straight Razor (Persea Books, 2013). A new collection, Proprietary, is forthcoming from Persea in summer 2017. He lives in San Francisco.