The bridge glistens over the Bay
through a stammer of fog.
The hills are covered with wet light
dark and white buildings rise into.
Things you have said about loving me
collect and brim like still water
filling the brave declivities,
making them warm,
but your living voice in this city
would root up the cables, I think.
The stores and houses would get ripped apart if I saw,
somewhere in the slumbering corridors of these blue streets,
your back and arms,
your steady, familiar body.
Because I have not kept faith with you:
I never said anything about the rain of sound
dropping all around us,
spattering our shoulders and our grappling fingers
when we said goodbye,
and I did not speak of the sprung light in your face
which made what you meant distinct and particular
as our first harried kisses might be.