名人诗歌|Coastal Plain

The only clouds

forming are crow clouds，

the only shade， oaks

bound together in a tangle^{1 of oak}

limbs that signal the wind

coming， if there is any wind

stroking the flat

fields， the flat

swatch of corn.

Far as anyone's eye can see， corn's

dying under the sky

that repeats itself either as sky

or as water

that won't remain water

for long on the highway： its shimmer²

is merely the shimmer

of one more illusion that yields

to our crossing as we ourselves yield

to our lives， to the roots

of our landscape. Pull up the roots

and what do we see but the night

soil of dream， the night

soil of what we call

home. Home that calls

and calls

and calls.