Santa Fe

the kind of town where you hear
the combative plunge of a hydraulic jack
absorbed in the supine back of wind
where the work gloves of a Mexican
laborer are glimpsed through the gaps
of a lilac bush in bloom
where snapshots are cut in two
by a woman striding the diagonal
cradling a phone between her shoulder bone
and chin
mouthing plans, quartered
on all panes
by pinkish
waist high adobe
no matter where you stop and take your pause
you remain lulled
by the confines of a lazy courtyard
the hereditary disposal of Spanish
fortified by brown mud and skin
streaked through by a blend of yellow
and green mush
captive progeny of sun and earth
with the first of spring’s
blustering simoons
the soul of a cactus
that outlives the flow
of water, bulge of colonists
arroyos trampled underfoot—
jackhammers, oiled canvases
and Indian war

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>