B is for bright, a boy, no birth marks but his hair inclined
to straightness and his nose more like a white man's.
B also for the blewits you dreamed
crowding the edge of the drive leading up
to the old farm you've crossed two states to see.
What will you do if you find no parcel in the name of B,
at the courthouse, in the chamber, at the indicated plat?
Only the dumb columns of knots you
scroll in the relic room, white ingot of fear as you look.
So sorry you don't already know the yard where chickens pecked
and padded under the eye of granddaddy B.
So sorry you missed him on his way.
He must be burning high above your head, a comet, or worse,
the story of a comet somebody told.
Wrong comet, wrong county, wrong deeds
spiraled into the rule book.
One roll of microfilm for every year you can't confirm.
How to confirm a certain garden gate, or palings not marked
on any grid?
Lucky B, spangled B, this is not where you begin.