Poetry Archives

This is a state where nothing marks the spot
officially.  They crop up now and then
out on the Freeway, or in rustic plots
sometimes, near S-curves in the country, when
the corn’s knee-high: a cross, or even two
or three, made out of poles or boards, white-
washed or painted.  They seem to have a view
of nothing at all: only the blurred lights
of oncoming cars, and the eighteen-wheelers
roaring by.  Memory has a harsh sting—
blown back like the fine grit that settles
while you walk here now—no special healer,
merely a friend or brother, stopped to bring
a can of flowers, to set among the nettles.