Chronicles.

We are not miners. We are 49ers. My friend mentions the 49ers every time conversation
is awkward, every time a truck goes by on the freeway. I am tired. My mind is quiet, is steady. The beat of my heart is stilled, willed. The flower is wilted. My love for you blooms eternally in gardens; my love for you is in a book, the symbol written in words. I haven't slept in weeks. The night falls. The waves break on the ocean. You tell me nothing. You tell me, "I see things bigger than myself!" I tell you know this. I try to get another job, but I can't speak past your eyes. Your eyes like stars. The woman with the red shirt works at the gas station. She sleeps at night without a pillow, thinking of her mother, her father, her sister, her brother. If they will be able to eat the next day. The television tells me no one is hungry, not in words, but in images. I can't afford cable. A pigeon poops in the garden. In the winter, my landlord drains the pool. It looks half-naked.