A slant on San Francisco

(Editor’s Note: A reader emailed this poem in response to a Victoria’s Secrets column about her trip to the left coast.)
TILT
Kinesthetically, I sense what geology imparts. The fault lines in California shape a mobile art.
I always feel tilted in San Francisco. All things vertical are either above or below me as I try to maintain my own horizontal plane.
The streets and the buildings and even the trees are climbing or dripping as I’m puffing or gripping. How tilted I feel in this San Fran City.
No natural goat in me bleating with pleasure and joy, while from crag to crag leaping as if heights were a toy.
No, no to you, Frisco City.