Every day there’s the bay, every day, every night, once, it was Estero de Jaltepec:
Kingdom of Sand: warm, coconut-sweet, not salt.
We jumped from the pier,
we jumped from mangroves when air was thick gold honey. We’d come up
and there it was, El Volcán de Chinchontepec:
Mountain of Breasts:
dormant, with a cornfield-skirt. Twenty years above the tropic, every day,
every night, there’s “Mt. Tam,” its Coast Miwok name
shortened by gringos: foreign and invasive like pampas grass,
like eucalyptus, like every single white seed of dandelions.