It's a fault line. It's got to be.
I'm watching crossing clouds vanish
In its straight-ruled, military
Linearity from a bench
In a day-use area named
"Little Galoot." Scrub jays eye me.
I eye the line in front of me,
Trail north to exterior worlds.
"Galoot," incidentally, fell
From a lost Italian galley
Into German, pace Eco,
Thence to Anglo obscurity.
Names. Pah. The cliff in front of me
Has a name, I can be sure of it.
I very much doubt I'd like it.
It's the shape of the dream wilds me.