Saturday, February 5, 2011


we swipe the folded landfall of new mexico
cure and seal meridians
by candle vase, pot and pan
surround the wind
longing and erect just beyond
the miner's path
we sleep in the tent with mother
hands deep
to each other's knapsacks
staggered ordination silent
our summer late snow
cross sandal-bloom and rose heavy
above the treeline, above the clouds
the rough and large of your hand

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