i am a blue blood cell on the red river.
it is not over
when
things wash away
because away is a place.
she howled from her great red depths
into the canyon of dust.
car alarms shut off
and dogs did not howl.
a waterfall is a thing of great old force
a canyon is the son of its mother
an ancient man watches the shaping of things
a long white beard is hanging like a rubber tire from a cottonwood limb
i dream about the living things
i live about the dreaming things
the living of things
the dying of things
a red blooded girl at the edge of the world
dropping pink stones into a pail.
one for each fish that she saw
with a bird in its jaws.
her papa used to tell her (once told her)
'if you find shed antlers in the woods
it is a good sign.
take them to the shady meadow and
bury their bases in dirt so they stand up
crooked like tiny old oak trees.'
and that is the end of the road.
i want you to read this slowly, out loud, in the desert, in front of an audience of cacti and crows. and film it. and then swim away in the red river, oh colorado.
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