by Stephen Cushman
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.