So these are the hills of home. Hazy tiers

nearly subliminal. To see them is to see

double, hear bad puns delivered with a wink.

An untoward familiarity.

Rising from my sleep, the road is more

and less the road. Around that bend are pale

houses, pairs of junipers. Then to look

reveals no more.




Rae Armantrout (USA, 1947), source Poetry Foundation

Leave a Reply