how to get to los angeles

as the plane heads south,
i watch the highway i have
driven my whole life get
smaller–but not less familiar.

the mountains, still snow capped,
surrond utah lake like an
emerald in the center of
an earth bound ring.

i have entered and left
this valley so many times,
each with the lingering question:
what am i leaving behind?
what am i arriving to?

the wasatch range from this
perspective is simliar to, but less
magnificent,than the one from
the 4 person plane i sat in
circling mt mckinley,
only months ago.

i am snaking my way to
72 degree weather and the
4 walls of a hotel for 4 days.
and all i can consider is that
the further my chest gets
from his, the more hollow
it feels–clenched.

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Categories: Poetry

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