We started in the suburbs of smaller cities
And as we followed the nomadic call 
Our nobler instincts led us further from 
Society’s center, westward, to a cabin hoisted
Aloft on faulty foundations far above the Napa Valley
Where the rain soaked earth shifted beneath us and trees caught 
Like kindling smoke clouds ripening 
vintner’s sun
But part of us refused to follow
Material distractions beckoned, rallied
Snagged, we’d return to the cities on day trips and long weekends
Self-aversion, anonymity found only in 
The midst of bricks and mortar 
The hustle of strangers
We were worldly people after all
But the haze of [bad word]  the agents of pollination, 
Clung to us, sparked like hayseed halos in the western sunlight
No one let on they’d noticed
But we saw, we knew

I watched my parents as they stood in a crowded Euston station
Up fresh from the country, suitcases at their sides
Waiting on my arrival, illuminated 
In an otherwise sea of grey
Not of this world

We were tempted back repeatedly
Until the lure of the cosmopolitan 
Lay beyond reach
We moved east, into the forests and mountains
Where life’s desires tore us apart
How [bad word] to find oneself alone at that altitude
At what point did the fear of numbers set in
And the recognition of internal isolation place us outside of belonging?
But then wasn’t that always the case, weren’t we simply 
Allowed to forget?
On Temple Mountain I threw down a rope that others might follow
No one came