i.
magnolia. i know how the water looked. drive-in stereos. we keep quoting , what was it, family guy? there were so many good bands then and everyone had stopped talking about nirvana. our friend at berkeley asks, what’s changed up there? someone cut the power at the space needle, for hours it’s as though it’s never been there. i’ve only seen canada, maybe mexico from a roof in san diego. right now, there’s a truck parked too close to us, the driver eyes us when we crawl into our car. the 5 is backed up, we take the back way.

    ii.
gasworks park. we are markers, out the field, out the builders, brief, you are in your underwear again. where are you coming from? there are only blocks between us, and in the snow i can hear your brother watching. i can see the tower in your glasses, i can see winter cinching—stop looking at me swan! there is no one in this city with bandages.

    iii.
greenlake. i learned to swim there. you threatened to haunt me, and when you died, i kept waiting for your face on my window. the golf course is crowded again, our garage made history and even the neighbors stopped snooping. i can hear my parents laughing:. fishing wire, tendon, a baby shark—i was told to close my eyes, hold my breath. kids chalking the pavement-squares do not hear the plunge. you could be wearing a gas mask, you could be dancing. i can go back to that summer, handle-bar scar, marrow-heat, oiled baseball gloves, and the way you looked with your shirt off. let the ferris wheel leave you there—