WEST
And it is about to rain. Here that doesn't happen
Often: clouds stacked like anvils, the sun
Even further west, pinking the jack rabbit
Ears in among the blue, fragrant sage brush.
What road got me here isn't so much a road
As a line across a plain. I can imagine
An engineer at the far end, pointing his hand
And saying that way, boys, we're going that way.
Then the refinery gates wheel back, and in the flare
I see you, the only person I know in this country,
And the sight is wonderful and it is unforgettable.
But the plain has become the empty plain that unfolds
In dreams; the refinery gates have disappeared,
And I stand on the empty plain. There is nothing else.
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