Stealing High Street signs
is funny until you're lost on High Street, high,
and then you get the irony,

but I could stay lost here,
especially in autumn.

Watch the leaves like spiders skitter from my sneakers,
Eugene in Kodachrome while flashbulbs blow and burn the trees,
the greens, the reds, all mixed up, wrong and overexposed,
traffic like a river, like blood, come, anything that flows,
the virility and life of a city flushing through one-way streets.

Watch myself running along, a giddy kid in a grainy film
dressed for winter and alive in the colors.

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