The Blind Spots of Redundancy

Have you been here before?
Some say yes; some say no.
Do you recognize this

Place, where you scrutinize
The hills, the foliage,
The road, how the light looks?

You squint, screw up your face.
It does seem familiar,
Parts of it. If only

It had a name, a sign.
If it was one you knew,
Then you could say for sure,

Yes, I’ve been here before.
No, but I know the name.
But you don’t know the name.

This doesn’t have a name.
Vaguely familiar, sure.
Not quite enough the same.

A crow caws in greasewood.
What lived as a pine stands
Dead holding power lines.