Goodbye to the bridge—we cross it.
We use distance as a way out of our minds.
We listen to the sunroof, driving down the hill
to seventeenth street. Afternoon.
The dusty sun darkens your green car
because it is not our subject.
Mission Dolores Park is, crowned with
multiple revelers, spaced evenly throughout.
Saturday. We prepare for our lawn game,
croquet, align ourselves with ancestors,
in a crooked way. The scene—drums, hair,
smoke—could frighten. Not properly
attired, we won’t return to the past.
I take my turn, crack the black ball
with the mallet; then thud—
that ball wacks another. Two extra hits.
It’s funny to look at the drumming people
and know they feel psychedelic.
I can’t find my friend in the crowd
if he is one of them; I can
if he is not. We are not psychedelic.
We play croquet and drink yellow alcohol
from glass jars, which are messy
and match the grass. Our party moves
around the course according to where balls go,
but the sun does not follow. It lengthens its angle
until our heads unite as shadows,
a field away from feet. In the background
run streets, signs of the grid, distance from Derbyshire.
A tree jags down then down then down,
and climbs into the viewfinder, a fractal
triangle, experiencing love. Each ball that travels
through the final wickets turns to poison
on the other side. We are the poisonous people
who play. We make the air colder, the day.
The night new, we drive into The Sunset,
natural light absent. Liquid now we see the scene
through windows, come together, bold bodies,
as consciousness, which remains.