World, never stop taking me.

New York City, I mistook you,
a radiator for crickets, the river
in its murky, filtered waters
of mountain, tap, and fresh mud.
a reminder of what is tough to swallow.

in New York cash from cans is king,
it snows on the first day of autumn.
the homeless drag plastic bags
in shopping carts, recycling income.
women in scarves hold hot coffee
pinned beneath the wet blue sky

the cold coddling bones that crack
with tepid possibility.

and World—
let's stop naming hurricanes.
burst beautifully instead, red aspens
deciduous in the crumbly light of fall.
take the orange leaves from my porch
and serve deftly on a copper platter.

L.A., there are pumpkins and palm trees
everyone mistakes clouds for the mountains.
under the sun the dress fits like a glove;
the wrong color was the perfect choice. 
my suitcase now full of sand and two
strangers share a motel with a coastline.

George, the Uber driver does not judge
the 8am dress, falling eyeliner or the
fraying wheel on my gritty suitcase. 
we do not judge the chaos, airscapes,
or desert beaches.

World, never stop taking me to these places,

never stop these erupting arrivals
of vivid depth. 

The only reason we know

the thing about mountains