Everything loosed from our touch
has no immediate danger to us.
Only the things we have made
or seriously diddled with spill
into our suspicious attention.

My head stops groaning when I
see a horizon of empty water
or steep unspoiled hillside.
I begin to sputter out the magic
place name California, but out of me
pours one arrythmic vibration
of asphaltic, metallic soup.

The presence of great ease–
such strong sweet memory
always retracting further from me,
as I wonder what there is about love
that is interesting
and keeps us noticing.

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