Since I'm Island-born home's as preciseas if a mumbly old carpenter,shoulder-straps crossed wrong,laid it out, refiguredto the last three-eighths of shingle.Nowhere that plowcut wormsheal themselves in red loam;spruces squat, skirts in sandor the stones of a river rattle its darktunnel under the elms,is there a spot not measured by hands;no direction I couldn't walkto the wave-lined edge of