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The Pure Land

As I drive home in noonday heat,
shimmerings of western corn
and macadam, I tip my cap
to huge pigs, lolling in mud
for mud's coolness,
a new water tower, tall and white-
I question
W A T A G A ?
I question heavens--or if,
in those pure precincts
no fish, flesh, or fowl
there be,
no black and white pigeon feathers,
no blue corn flowers fringe the way
(though their mood be lupine),
no State & County
trucks and such as we
in iridescent vests,
day glo orange--
and tar to pitch for road repair--
no tower, no water ?
no need ? and so,
no satisfaction. Or
       is it
here all along,
the pure land that must suffice?
So these common
puffs of cloud to the south
appear, as
suddenly--to the north
and east--fanged, newfangled
dragon tongues,
bleak &
thunderhead blues,
catch us aware? Pure
speculation. As if the winds
beyond this horizon
could churn such
grayblue bolts,
such gold edged
whites, such
beaten forms.


Copyright 2003 Jim McCurry


More Poetry
A poem about B
Laconic Supernumeraries
For Soen Nakagawa

Notes on Concierto de Aranjuez



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