Course Correction

There’s no formula for it,

That’s for sure, and who could say

Whether the person one meant

To receive the formula

Were not, in fact, the starter

Kit for the peculiar script

Any such formula would need

To enact? You bump down the road.

There’s a little road through the woods,

A two-track rut into grey scrub

That you turn left to bump onto.

The woods are the ones that greeted

Bishop on her chemin de fer—

Impoverished scrub pine and oak—

You won’t get out of them without

Some pleasantries from the hermit,

And if you get lost arriving,

Remember, there’s no formula—

There might be an alligator

Or startled swamp deer.

There might be some tattered pages

That seem to contain corrections. . .