Here

"Many of the mediolana are places that a traveller might well describe as 'the middle of nowhere.'"

Light from the south as much as the west strokes
The narrow cedars like fingers, a mile
From the mouth of the known national park

That, in the United States, was once called
Zion. Next to the cedars, a prison,
One-celled, windowed, cemented from sandstone

Blocks, blocks the the high road of understanding.
A little water trickles from a spring.
One can, falsely, imagine young voices,

But who alive today could understand
Why the world's greatest secular empire
To that point in time named this spot "Zion"?

 

Connect all the world's possible Zions,

One draws a perfectly random scatter,
And who accepts randomness lovingly?