Reads the sign on the fence post
In the scrub woods past the pond.
You knew you weren’t meant to be
Here, this far from a safe street,
A place you could use the phone.
You don’t think the kinds of folks
Who own this sort of spare land
Would be pleased to see you here,
But this seems worse than KEEP OUT.
For one thing—is this the poem?
Was it meant to be a poem?
Or is it some kind of joke?
Or does it mean to warn you
Off, go back, it’s not too late?
Too deep for what? To get lost?
To get out? Too deep in what?
Then what? What if there’s no poem?
It hits you. It’s like those signs
That warn, if you can read this,
You’re too close. It’s just smart-ass.
A poem does not mean you’re in
At all, but the hand that wrote
Wants to scare you, back you off.
If there’s a poem, and who knows
If there is, and you can read,
It’s too late. Of course, it’s not.
You could go on. Where were you?
How’d you get this far? The sign
Is gone. Sun sets on the pond.
