It lies in the American West
All but forgotten. No stone
Commemorates the spot,
Nor is one necessary. What hopes there
Have calcified, what expectations,
The traveller would not recognize;
Or-recognizing-care.
Such landmarks as showed the way
(The curious rocks, the morning clouds
Which were skulls) are scattered now,
Or have eroded. And paths
Which suffered our crossing, the roads which once
Existed, it seemed, merely
To take us there, have faded and overgrown.
Nothing is easily found…
Should you persist, however, and should
You approach, tonight, that broken landscape you
Would find, at land’s end, these words
“This is the grave of the right hand:
The threshold, the woebegone.’
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