Michael Peterson

from repeater

You could talk more about that wilderness,
  you could hold forth–
westernness, brutalist by exposition, maybe
  closer to what– burlesque–
now in its genre of stamina, now conquest–
  the towns have names like
Chinese Camp, Old Fort, Same-New-Hope-Again–
  as if one could soften exile
in this way and so ascribe to it a form of
  elegance, but if not place,
if not a brand of devotion, to what new hope
  insists, then amidst nothing,
or what a territory can only alert you to as
  absence, like an ocean, for instance,
which indicates that too. Farther in the
  acreage, apricots
redden in the customary way, each cast
  around its eucharist, this too
being your state’s dark exponent, you, heir
  to nothing, where you forever rattle
your bright comparison– extension, you call it–
  so that beyond the fence which
frames the harvest as you leave, the route
  which sees you home, so firmly,
you think– this place is so much brighter
  than your new one, which is the
one-forthcoming-now-forever, nowhere near a sea,
  though you are made to see one.