Jeremiah slides in and picks me
up from LAX, assures me to expect nothing
for the rest of the day, telling me to rest, to ease
back into his passenger seat, back
into California, my clothes already loose
and inviting. Like against a lithe curtain, a dry breeze swells
and knots in the slack of my shirt, my chest
hair rises, and for a moment I am made
forgetful, and think myself bare,
cold even, until Jeremiah makes fun
of my former life insulated
by humidity. Too often I feel a passenger
to the subtleties of my body, I watch as my fingertips contour
the crest of the San Gabriel Mountains
—it is unusual,
brilliant how clear it is today—until I drift
past myself and feel extended wholly
along its ridgeline, almost like dancing—I can see myself nude
and florid on top Strawberry Peak, but Jeremiah nudges me
awake, says I was indiscriminate,
humming, but what if he too saw me rootless,
wandering through the yucca and sage—
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