MASS
if you make it past the single anxious intersection a half-block from my house, past the tennis courts and bouncy castles, and past the stranded sunday picnickers, you’ll find
the trail that winds around the mountain lake, the concrete trail dusty that takes you through the wood, under the underpass, around the base of the hill where the coyotes make their dens, up the wooden stairs to and through the sandy, windy outside lands—
the trail that crosses another road to a foggy eucalyptus wood, descends unevenly down and around gnarly grasping roots, sweeps in wide sunlight with wide panoramas of sleepy city neighborhoods, clambers over massive fallen trunks, and across a quiet parking lot—
the trail now faint that gasps across two last road crossings and laughs w crazy wonder at the sight of the sea, goes galloping into the expanse, gusts of wind leaving blisters in the sand unconscious of weddings, tourists, genitals, gulls playing chicken w the canines crows, pretentiously strutting apart little children feeling for the first time with their bare toes the vicious waves, pacific waves foamy, freezing exfoliation, a reminder of the terror of life and the joyous fact that one day we’ll all be together again.