California

Finally, friends are leaving for New England—
Haddam, CT, and, God help them, Vermont—

which means plowing, slipping, freezing
but not, they hope, burning up in Paradise

as the Golden State furiously consumes itself.
I miss them though I won’t go East again.

I can’t—not to where all the seasons differ
gorgeously in the ways they make me ill,

where it’s okay to just be fucking mean,
especially in Little Rhody, or Rogue Island,

as it was called in the eighteenth century,
recently voted home of the worst accent,

beating West Virginia. No more bubblers
for me, and nothing’s wicked where I live

among nice folks, who say, beautiful day,
because we have beautiful days (whales,

pelicans, otters, and hummingbirds), then
a week of Martian skies, this sick orange.

We catch the ash and smell of toasted trees
and buildings. After this, rain refuses to soften,

pushing down on us. I jump at loud cracks
as long-lived, dried-out firs give up the ghost.

Mind the burn scar, authorities warn. Water
and rocks and everything else have nothing

to stop them. If  you hear the mudslide, you are
already too late. But I haven’t heard it yet.