The Siren of San Francisco by John Doyle

Twisting like a tree with merely summer to lose,
Notos couldn’t stop me now,
leaves are driven from their tribe,
southwards, where a moist breeze
softens her steps,
my bone crackling on sinew
to find her face,
to embody that ghost,
where in winter she would splash kisses on yellow-cab streaks,
on San Francisco sidewalks
so beloved of 1955,
where those fang-less rains
would melt in humming orange light,
and somehow we both knew
she would wait,
in the diamond cut
of hard-bop diners,
and that jaundice skin-taxi, stuttering in 12/8 time,

John Doyle Bio: The only good bio is a bio strung-up outside some gold-prospector’s wooden shack with his dog Jake sniffing at its last remaining remnants of sanguine flesh; So I will keep it simple, I’m from County Kildare, Ireland, and I love nothing more than stumbling across 3rd Division football games in Slovenia or Belgium on a Sunday morning as a welcome interlude while trying outsmart fellow bio hunters.


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