(beginnig from what became Insite poem)
Bridal Blooms

We camped for three weeks that summer
up north where the wildflowers still lingered
in August
which was, of course, a great joy to me
every day he fished and I picked wildflowers
until we got to the Horse we broke camp every day
and drove on to another spot
and every day after we packed the gear in the back
of the truck I would take my bouquet
and throw it in the creek or the river
wherever we were staying
and watch the delicate blooms
drift downstream

there was something perpetually
bridal about it
maybe just the cliche of tossing the bouquet
but it seemed more than that
there was something about the flowers
floating on water

and despite my natural tendency to cling to
to save, to press and dry and preserve
there was something good for me
about throwing the bouquet on the stream
each day

when we got back to Bakersfield and I saw
the first car phone and the first
garfield upside down on the inside of a
dirty windshield I began to cry
and said don’t take me back
I don’t want to go back
I sat in my friend’s bathroom
and looked at her blue tile
and regretted bathrooms
regretted the coming of indoor plumbing
I was so sad to be back in town
back in civilization

he was a surfer
I always thought surfers
made the best lovers
because they were comfortable
in a fluid medium
and can be comfortable in
feminime fluidity