San Francisco’s outerlands is where the city’s once barren dunes end at the Pacific. The poet walks there religiously most mornings, remembering his past, recalling some of the places and people, the art and the artists he has most treasured, while brooding on those ultimate concerns that have obsessed him since childhood, the oldest questions that have no answers. The Outerlands is where life, like the land, ends and finds itself at its outermost reaches where death, like the sea, begins.