Saturday, August 7, 2010

*09/104: New Mexico* (from the 'nah' series)

let me move there.
i'll build up our house with
ancient red dirt.
once, we might lay outside
and let the dust know us.
we'll close our eyes;
i'll braid my hair for miles
and miles.
you might touch it and
say, "the sun shines for you"
and i may count your freckles.
i might say "your skin is
terrain, maybe holy."
we could put our hands
deep into the water;
and should we dip our
cup into the sky
and drink it until
we flip inside out?

let me move there.
i'll stand up tall
with a sweet breeze
bringing earth to my nose.
once, we might have had a life
that wasn't mountains and leather
and open-like-soul skies.
i don't remember that
or the sharp pangs,
do you?
i might say, "let's not"
and smile.
you might agree.
we'll stay on the prairie
perpetually hunting with our
sunset bows and arrows.
we'll bleed there
and create secrets,
alone from familiarity.
should we walk with our
own feet to New Mexico?

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