Someone welds a pipe on a metal stand
between a highway and a granite cliff.
Pull over and put your eye to the end
of the pipe. There. Can’t you see the profile
of Perry Mason? His eye, the square chin?
Years pass as life on earth and your own life
move you into the digital city.
Here any pipe you looked through would be filled
with straight edges, themselves celebrities.
So you start to keep rectangles on hand,
small totems of faces and vertices—
everyone has at least one, like passwords.
Everyone grows to have many, like teeth.
I climbed Telegraph Hill to Coit Tower
so my pulse testifies that the land lifts,
and from this view, the low parts look like swords
raised by a phalanx issuing a roar.