in my coffee this morning.
I wanted to hold
the desert in my mouth again.
I miss the hot wind
and the promise
of the lonely unexpected.
I miss a sky the color of
all the voices of God.
My cigarette does not taste enough
of the fires of California.
The Nor'Easter outside does not
contain the spices of
the Santa Anas.
I have been too long from the road.
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