The Sunday Poem: On the Carretera Panamericana, South of Lima

The billboards along the road, dry,
Sandblasted pink and pale,
Aren’t even markers of distance yet.
At my age of fourteen and at 80 at least
The little crosses by the highwayside
Look like stupidity—I see a straight road,
Air sharp as thirst, dunes and sand piled high,
The beach somewhere ahead. We even stop to look
At one grave, and puzzle out names, and are surprised
To see fresh flowers —
                                   waterstains and dust
Barely holding the mottled jar together,
The flowers inside are so bright —
                                                  and shrug even,
And keep driving far and fast and free enough
That the crosses blur into the sand, melting in the sun
Until every inch of the road has been the site of an accident.