A poem in Oakland, CA

February 18, 2014

I dream of the roots of your
trees and green in your leaves
when I eat mushrooms.

I don’t know it until
I walk towards an edge
hoping it is a bay but, too
far in I guess, at least for a walk
in the rain.

In my daydreams, the trip
does not go like this.
Sunshine, shopping, smoking
on hillsides.

Instead I am given : grey clouds,
curled around fingertips
so that the mouth of the
ocean rains down on
my
toes.

Still, I should hope
to dance — in its
puddles! — for
just a day more.
Listen to the bangs
of raindrops as if
upon the drums of
proud
circles.

And now I am just dreaming,
again,
always doing that, always
losing track.

In Oakland, the trees
look like my mushroom
trips.
Houses melt into dirt so
beautiful.
The rain make a tap,
tap, tap.

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