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