Those sandy patches on level roads
Are the same
County after county. The homes
And marginal farms (mostly gone into receivership
Of small animals)…
It’s cool nights. Baseball statistics
Take on a certain depth. In small towns
The woods begin
Where ball fields end
Just as one
Hits a lift in the pavement
A town appears at the bottom.
At a rounded corner
A building wedges out
Clean and prosperous, a little taller than the others . . .
Otherwise woodlots, inns, motels,
Marinas sighted through cattails.
Owners of cottages striding gravel lots
To restaurants imitating Florida –
And sometimes the roads
Remind one of Florida
When they drop low into swale.
Crowd up and the pavement swivels,
The land swivels.
In the town
A center pulsing about the beer tent,
To the bank of the estuary . . .