No Place Like Home

    My ocean's the one bad weather blows out to.

    To face the other， waves all driven

    by prevailing winds， I have to turn

    my back on my family. May they forgive

    this westward spree， my losing my head

    to ravens that ride the thermals in circles，

    to the shrub-covered bluffs of coastal scrub

    and chaparral， to coons in the avocado trees；

    may they not worry that I see signs

    warning Great White Shark Area，

    Rutting Elk May Be Aggressive，

    and Hazardous Surf， or that one night two

    quick earthquakes burped through the ground；

    and may they repeat， when I return

    slightly burned from the land of poppies，

    all the lessons they ever taught me

    about odination in the ordinary.