Each bright day with wind
arrives like San Francisco in ’68.
The fog pours in like horses 
across the Golden Gate, the seals
cough down at the Wharf. 

City Lights opens its narrow stair
and Ferlinghetti is at the top 
to turn and welcome you
with his slow smile. 

And the feeling 
of reaching toward the bread 
of something solid, the wine
of something still to come, 
the sacrifice not yet required,
the circle still unbroken.