I have, as far as I know,
experienced everything I will experience:
a seagull shit in my hair on the beach;
in the sunflower field,
hiding from the police, I napped;
or trespassing a beach cabana and blending daiquiris.
I am certain I won’t love like that again.
All those days were cultivated
by realtors and developers—
the hospital where I was born
demolished to build a condo complex for retirees.
In the center of my suburb, called a “historic village,”
philanthropists designed
a nature preserve to honor their son who died in a plane crash
and, for reasons unclear to me,
loved rhododendrons.
On a trail carved for bucks
a ranger caught me chopping tree stumps
and threatened to call the cops.
I do too, love rhododendrons, for the shape of their name.
I don’t remember any cliffs there—
nowhere near the coastline—
but there could be cliffs if I ask politely
