Tuna and Rye, Thoughts On A Brief Lunch Break

San Francisco looks as though she weighs fifty pounds
this afternoon, as if i could reach two fingers under a crack
in the pavement, and lift the street right up with a single hand
to see the hidden face, flesh beneath the underside,
the batteries and organs like a clock, a spitting engine,
rubber bands and reflective pools of grease—
ruins and splinters of wagon wheels strewn about, as if the
skyscrapers landed intact on the settlers, too busy plotting
squares of slanted land to notice them falling from above—
or perhaps they were lowered gently by cranes, tethered
by hair and dental floss, every available rope on hand...