The new road runs along the old road. I can see it

still imprinted on the earth, not twenty feet away

as I drive west past silos and farmsteads, fruit stands and hogs.

Once in Kansas, I stood in a field and watched

the stars on the horizon revolve around my ankles.

People are always moving, even those standing still

because the world keeps changing around them, changing them.

When will the cities meet? When will they spread until

there is a single city-avenue to avenue, coast to coast?

What we call "the country" is an undeveloped area

by the side of the road. There is no "country," there is no "road."

It's one big National Park, no longer the wilderness it was.

But the old world exists under the present world

the way an original painting exists under a newer one.

The animals know: their ancient, invisible trails cross

and re-cross our own like scars that have healed long ago.

Their country is not our country but another place altogether.

Anything of importance there comes out of the sky.

In Amarillo the wind tries to erase everything, even the future.

It swoops down to scrape the desert clean as a scapula.

Here among bones and bleached arroyos the sun leans

through my window at dawn to let me know

I'm not going anywhere. There's no more anywhere to go.