America has so many roads-
On every road, someone lost.
And should we be sorry for the girls
Who will go into labor nine months from tonight?
Should we be sorry for being born
Americans? Here, lost at the crossroads,
Trying to find our place on the map.
So many towns, so many little stars…
America has surrounded us.
And the poems that fell from our mouths
Like stars in August-
Look for them in the Pacific.