The Pure Land


As I drive home in noonday heat,
shimmerings of western corn
and macadam, I tip my cap
to huge pigs, lolling in mud
for mud's coolness,
a new water tower, tall and white-
I question
W A T A G A ?
I question heavens--or if,
in those pure precincts
no fish, flesh, or fowl
there be,
no black and white pigeon feathers,
no blue corn flowers fringe the way
(though their mood be lupine),
no State & County
trucks and such as we
in iridescent vests,
day glo orange--
and tar to pitch for road repair--
no tower, no water ?
no need ? and so,
no satisfaction. Or
       is it
here all along,
the pure land that must suffice?
So these common
puffs of cloud to the south
appear, as
suddenly--to the north
and east--fanged, newfangled
dragon tongues,
bleak &
gorgeous
thunderhead blues,
catch us aware? Pure
speculation. As if the winds
beyond this horizon
could churn such
grayblue bolts,
such gold edged
whites, such
beaten forms.

 

Copyright © 2003 Jim McCurry