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It might as well be Patagonia,
by Katy Brown

this isolated settlement
clinging to the edge of the world:
under a layering
apricot and lavender Wyeth-sky,
washed-out in the high-plains,
blown dusty and forgotten.
Where does this ragged
sketch of a road come from
— go to?

It could be Nebraska,
but for the red tiled roofs;
or somewhere in the flat
South West — except the dusky sky
isn’t quite flamboyant enough.

What manner of woman
would Wyeth
have placed in the foreground,
enigmatic and alluring?
What animals would
he have drawn, inching from burrows
when the crescent moon rises?
In what decade or century
— the sandy road gives no clue.

Only the long-traveling wind
remembers the name of such a place.
It might as well be Patagonia
for all the distances
implied in this bewitching,
shadowless light.

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