It is as clear in memory as if
upon eight millimeter film: the farm–
neat lawns about the house and trees for shade,
the outhouse, fifty chilly steps away
upon an autumn’s night, and fields on fields
(or so it seemed when I was still a youth)
of corn and hay–my cousin’s working farm.
Right here my aunts and uncles sat that day
among the ruins of the potluck lunch
while cousins roamed about the place.
is this–this ragged forest choked by weeds,
this tumbled shack half hid among the trees,
all buried in neglect, and open fields
rearing up development?
as written on the edge of ancient maps,
a “Terra incognita.” Also, “Here
be monsters”–and I shudder at these things.