» This Story:Read +| Comments

Poet's Choice: Hollyhocks in the Fog by August Kleinzahler

Discussion Policy
Comments that include profanity or personal attacks or other inappropriate comments or material will be removed from the site. Additionally, entries that are unsigned or contain "signatures" by someone other than the actual author will be removed. Finally, we will take steps to block users who violate any of our posting standards, terms of use or privacy policies or any other policies governing this site. Please review the full rules governing commentaries and discussions. You are fully responsible for the content that you post.
Sunday, March 22, 2009

The first third or so of this poem was written 28 years ago, here in San Francisco, in the same apartment I'm in now. I was never quite happy with the rest of it and only recently figured out how I might complement those earlier lines. The "hook" or "event" precipitating the resurrection and completion of the poem was the -- to me -- strange phenomenon of the big black Google bus at the foot of the block every morning and evening, picking up Google employees, then dropping them off at night. The rest is, I hope, self-explanatory.

This Story

(To see this poem without interruption, press the Print button in the Toolbox. -- The Editor.)

Hollyhocks in the Fog

Every evening smoke blows in from the sea, sea

smoke, ghost vapor

of lost frigates, sunken destroyers.

It hangs over the eucalyptus grove,

cancels the hills,

curls around garbage sacks outside the lesbian bar.

.

And every evening the black bus arrives,

the black Information bus from down the Peninsula,

unloading the workers at the foot of the block.


CONTINUED     1              >


» This Story:Read +| Comments
© 2009 The Washington Post Company