Cold Spring Trail

This used to be a hell of a country
rattled off the set.


Now it's just tumbling
over itself, but there's nothing
a good haircut can't hide.

And I expected one day,
wafting through a Wednesday
morning, I expected the sight
of someone so soft and subtle
and clothes out of time and
a glimpse of something
on the wrist suggesting ease
as I expect to be going about
my day, trying to look
comfortable in the heat.

Then, months earlier
and more in the present sense,
I expected not to understand,
but when he asked me Who
wants to lie
disinterred
like a city under smog?
I thought (another coffee),
That is me
(that is us).
I thought
That might be us.

There are no senses in these beginnings
because I bought an orchid
from $5 man, who made it from Los
Angeles to San Francisco on a scooter.
Twice, he said, twice.
And maybe the orchid was stolen,
but no one talks
about these formative years
or the shifting, evasive
notion of nostalgia and fear in used to.