Pecos valley

An adobe church is crumbling
the crowd from Pennsylvania stand dumb
over clay brick heaps
a scarab plots by their sneakers

The blacksmith toys with heat
shapes a pot hook with mallet
scorched through by the noon sun
in the small shadow of pines
sweat glistens the ends of his hair

A half moon faint
scoped through the porthole
of the divining mission:

No bell tolls
No friars in robes
No more Indian pueblo

Insatiable in dust
fields of yellow
winds whisper
the quiet dole

Once a river jut this way to the gulf
now dried up
black mesas brood over
the sterling highway

in brimmed hats
park and observe
in trivial pant
the silent vale

I have visions:

molding sun beat clay
warriors hand plucking
spearheads intact
barelegged ploughmen
mud packed verandas
mothers squatting over rugs
new born babes

Thrive these in memory
the malice of horsemen and shield
straddlers of the cross
blow clear
from my temples

Chaff of a
calamitous day

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