Waiting for the quake in the parking lot at the Golden Gate, since I’m the nervous type, I imagine the bridge to sway and topple. It’s like a dream to explain the funny feeling in my chest. If you were here I’d get it over with and tell you that I love you. I’d tell you that and make it true. But all I have is space, the bay an abyss of blue, a mile of bridge and a poem from me to you.
28 April 1979