At the crossroads

Excuse me, but I seem to have got lost. It's not
my house I'm looking for, where I planted fourteen
trees, and where I keep my books. It's home

I want to find. It may be on the map, or in
the calendar, or not. It's not that I've forgotten
its name, or times, or author, I just haven't

learned them yet. It isn't anywhere I've been, it isn't
in the beech-woods neighbouring that warm house
of toys and nightmares. I stayed a little time

in the Cree country of Ontario, and an hour or two
in the theatre at Epidauros, and the Great Mosque
at Cordoba, but I came away. I've looked in vain

through the little luminous window in the corner,
where the hucksters put their noses to the glass
and shout at me. I'm sorry, how can I expect

you to direct me? I must be either mad,
or the last speaker of this language. Sorry
to have troubled you. I'll know it when I'm there.