This is the place unpunctuated with fence posts
and tattered billboards; a brushstroke of sky,
an overly-optimistic horizon. Or this is
the place, tyrannical with towers knee-deep
in the institution of county of this is
the place where border crossings collapse
into cascades of well-meaning, meaning,
this is the place to drive to
to drive around, sighing, “Potential! Potential!”
before citing overstepped property lines,
trespassing weeds unable to distinguish “place”
from “this is.” The place
where unplanted pear trees
preach themselves into perfection. Is it?
The one plot of promised land un-tilled
at the back of your brain? Is it? Quick,
the wind is changing.
The place?