you travel through the city of angels, the town of my birth. it told me of your arrival and of how the palms bowed, the stars hid and the moon asked for your number. many times i have driven past the ground you cover, not knowing you would walk there. if i had, i may have left something for you to find. or a way to find me. but i am hidden now in buildings, in meetings, in family. there is part of me that has already jumped in my car and driven down the coast highway, winding like a snake. the kundalini spine of kalifornia. i gently work my hand along its ridges and valleys. it is attention it needs, deserves. a simple brush along the right place and she opens up and shows you what no one else gets to see. say hello to her for me and tell her i miss her. in the mirror and in the canyons.