Directions

Come by the fast road as far as the river
   with a funny name. Turn left over
the shoal bridge — it will have been repaired
       since that recurrent nightmare.
Pass the valley school, standard fortress of brick,
           and the transforming power lake.
You will come to one stoplight, local joke, facing
               a mostly vacant volunteer plaza —
fire department, branch library, P.O. Turn right,
                 away from the veneer of lights.
When you face a choice at the triple fork, follow
                     the leftmost tine, toward that low
mountain; and when you buck across the sunken asphalt
                         patch that looks like Africa,
bear left again, just past the weed-cracked gas
                            station. After the underpass
the road gets narrow, convoluted — quick climb and fall,
                            gravel or trash scattered in all
the worst turns — before it unexpectedly yields
                         to countryside. Look for a field
spread to the left, a bungalow pinning its far corner:
                    home at last. Park in the yard.
If I’m not on the porch, leave your bags on the lawn,
                  come inside and lie down on
the ready bed for a while. If daylight grows lean
              and still I haven’t been seen,
go out the back, downslope, to the old logging trail,
          a star-lost lovers’ lane. You will
enter a cedar plantation, the steady rumor of creek.
       And the closer to it you get,
the more familiar everything feels, until you know,
   paused on the crossing stone,
that I have been watching you all along.