|He was there—
before the rising action rose to meet this acre cornered by thirst;
before birds swallowed bathwater and exploded in mid-sentence;
before they began sipping the blood of ravens from the Sun’s knotted atlas.
He was there,
He said, “you are worth the wait”
He threw a blanket over the denouement slithering onto shore
He saw anthropologists hook a land bridge with their curved spines,
When they pointed,
|Tonight, I draw a raven’s wing inside a circle
measured a half second
before it expands into a hand.
I wrap its worn grip over our feet
as we thrash against pine needles inside the earthen pot.
He sings an elegy
Two headlights flare from blue dusk.
One finger pointed at him,
A light buzzed loud and snapped above the kitchen sink.
How many Indians have stepped onto train tracks,
In the cave on the backside of a lie
one more mile, they say,
I haven’t _________
Strange, how they burrowed into the side of this rock.
Perhaps it was September
it reached sunlight in a matter of seconds.
It is quite possible
In this hue—