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  • Writer's pictureKaris Rogerson

This is Twin Peaks

Cold air whips my legs

and my dress — too light,

too breezy — floats up, up, up.

Karl sits low in the sky

so low moisture saturates my skin

beading my arms with round droplets.

Somehow sunlight lances

through the fog, a spotlight

on three houses beneath me.

I wonder what makes them special,

why they are chosen among the rest

to shine in the glory of the setting sun.

This is Twin Peaks. Fog so low

I can't see their tips, teenager's

laughter slicing the thick air

sirens squealing in the distance

and beneath us, under our feet

the city of San Francisco stretches.

Poem by Karis Rogerson June 16, 2021


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