They would be in the backwoods of Arkansas
on the shortcut road with a few farms
some of which have cattle grazing the edges
of pasture, muddying their feet in a swamp
of leafless gray trees.
Cows are so bovine, nature so friendly,
the ergrets content to eat what they find,
scores of them hunting the soft ground
on a hot day, tail swishing.
But if you approach the barbwire fence
to take count of their beauty
they flutter off to the bare trees:
rags, flags of surrender, bridal kites
stand in the trees stand in the water
stand behind pasture, fence, and tarred road.
It is enough that they are there,
that you are there, that the coincidence
of this view is without death or blindness.
you pose the comera; they cannot hear
it click or count the months until photos
come back and you wonder why this
field of foxtail grass and ugly trees.
And then you see specks lining the branches.
And then the whites of your eyes remember.
He knows this is not new, this
strange map open on the land
streets falling into place the same
all of them content with their names
though here he has no address
and everyone else is a favorite son.
St. Christopher patron guide of travelers
lets his north hand become his south
his east eye set heavy and closing.
Behold a road called like a lover
takes him hill and dale
back to a beautiful spine.
Mr. Encore pretends this is Mecca
Alexandria, Ostia or Thebes.
Words have let him own the world
with still this pocket left.
He turns right into a Walgreen's parking lot.
Inside rows of fragrant riches
are laid out exactly like home.
-- Joanne Lowery