Jogging Poem 

Was it you I saw
loitering by the porta-potties
in the clatter
of pine needles
when I stopped to flick a rock
from my running socks?
Of course not.
I'm at least a million miles away. Here
under the picnictable shade it's easy
to feel close because
of cut wood, or burnt wood,
and the little breeze that smells like Waldport
in June even though it's Mediterranean
February, how terribly lonesome.
In these flights of farness even
I smell the sea
in the downy back of your neck
riding in the back of my sister's van
and under the rectangle of rearview
you catch my hand
and I hear the soft scrape of your knuckles
as you rub your neckbone
and distill that seasmell.
Even that, after all
and as nothing as I here
have to do with anything, I think
on dark trains
and in discotheques
but small stuff can be strong
and lodge in socks