Marc Petersen Today, you don’t make it past Livermore. With a hundred miles to go, you pull off the freeway. You park. You get out. You watch traffic pass at eighty, heading northeast. You wanted to see where she’d lived. You imagine roads and barbed wire fences. It was a long walk. This is what you remember. And big tin mailboxes with their metal flags up. Marc Petersen is a poet and photographer living in Santa Clara,...

Marc Petersen I am on my way to extinction, here, today, Christmas morning, my blanket spread out, my wine uncorked, lighting my first cigarette before the stone that says my father, and the tiny angel smiling on the granite roof, and those who have gone past their deaths in rows up along the banks of lawns and flowers–all anonymous, even though I know the names of those closest, and my sneakers are wet from walking. Marc Petersen...