The clouds were grey and purple, Like bruise, like the way I felt.
A young woman got in the car at the casual car pool,
Then her man–he called her Lisa.
Silence, they didn’t speak though they were intimate.
Left alone to drive, I meditated on my bruise,
The pool of color collecting around Oakland,
Then San Francisco.
On the bridge, traffic came as an act of grace:
It slowed the car down long enough for blue snap into existence.
The water shimmered like a platter
Serving up emptiness.
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