These red doors in Chinatown are locked.  Lanterns dance in the stiff breeze.  The weather here changes so quickly.  

The plastic heads of white beauties in a Chinatown salon stare dispassionately at me.  Tiny gold hearts hang in the window, somebody's gilded loss.  These gals could be sisters, the preserved heads of Bluebeard's wives.  Turn away.

The fog rolls in at Eby State Park.  We have to stand a long to time to make sure what we see is real.  This is a land of mist, a gray domain.

 Beach grasses grow along Puget Sound.  They make a sound like a million shy people whispering when the wind blows in.  I have braided and coiled them around my fingers - the blades have bled green in my palms.  My children have hidden in them, leaping out like cats.

Cocktails with homemade cordials at the Feedback Lounge.  The Bells of Saint Marys ring loud in my ears.  It is their most popular drink.

 My city is through these trees, surrounded by nature on all sides.  Built up in the twentieth century, it rose slowly, until it was no longer recognizable to the old ones.  Still Chief Seattle walks restlesslessly over the land.  He never wanted the honor.  Peeking through the frame of trees, the buildings stand like linear hives, each cell contains a person or people, a much loved soul with wings.