i saw eucalypts at dana point
eyes deceived and for moments
i defined the smell with far off shores;
maybe i mentioned it, well worn letters
written in girlish italics, drowned in bad perfume
this isn't home, it's visionary,
a place of restless sailors
with dolphin dreams and blue water,
great crumbles of cliffs, houses hanging on
as if clinging to a life not owned by anything
neat boxes, ones bought in plenty
to frown down on those needlessly drowned,
thrown into breakwaters for the pennies dropped
friendly enough, a stranger in their gold miles,
lost; a moment in time, accented with foreign words,
a humorful, colorful; less therapied version
of what they want to be
this strangeness doesn't make me yearn,
it wakes curiosity, pushes back
to hardly recognize what i left behind
until i squint into a grizzly sun; he too
doesn't quite see the beauty anymore
busy going up and down without moving
it makes me want to write more letters
about how my sun is stationary until a thought
brings shock, grabs night
pulling towards its terrifying darkness,
we sleep then, cocooned in wattle yellow
with wafted smell of raging fires on hills,
mixed with ferns and dignified old rain
still unable to quiet the crackle of summer
this is what i return to, the upside down of you
a relief i suppose, not to individualize snow or white
but take blue in a perplexion of heat, melted pavement
wrap it like christmas; to keep- or
perhaps i'll send it like a messenger of hope
wish you were here
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