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 A 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 the rural, 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 cruel 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