by Rae Armantrout
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.
From:
Veil: New and Selected Poems
Copyright ©:
2001, Wesleyan University Press
Last updated December 02, 2022