I went to the desert,
the jungle, the shore,
and always some cursed
omen.
I went to the city
at last for the source,
and there in the streets
were men.
ALONG THAT ROAD
A stranger came one day along that road
and looked out on the field, the barn,
the house set by itself against the woods,
the air as empty in its fence
of silence, as the hour of light.
Alone,
clothes torn, his hands streaked by the cuts
of glass through which he came like hurtling stone
to sudden halt, he searched the bluff
of easy miles for signs of God on wheels,
then limped some more and paused, the bills
in his pocket less a commodity
of exchange for another man's good will,
than a threat of violence that was worse
for being secret.
Car wreck found.
Driver missing. He saw the headline words
small on a page, his name announced
in an obituary column.
Twice
he glanced back over his shoulder
to see whose shadow was following behind,
while at a darkened window, its owner
stood with gun upraised, remembering Job.
A stranger came one day along that road.