mission street ebbs, buttons coats and dusky sweaters towards drizzle and rain and strangers with high foreheads and large shocks of hair that matter more than manners and ricochets of spin, than mornings that scavenge trash cans, or catalogues growing longer hair until every face reminds you of another face, and still you still the sea of forever faces hoping to see one of them more than others, until it comes to you on trains, in airplanes, in the singular bed where you talk to the city as if it were a page outside the 24th street bart station where a man plays the accordion, but it sounds like a scratchy guitar of reliable words dying in the phoenixed air, as if wilderness were usual, a cave of settling, a sometimes shun of anything that lets us out into ourselves, into others, into the wasted fine and now dark evening where comes chests and hands looked on and gone. mouths. prophecy. shiny myth making waiting to be lit inside.