young professor from Wyoming wears a red banded skin of snake on the spirit finger of her right hand that shakes . . ., The

-for Lukeon

I.

We will not speak of these snowy Hopi orchards again.

Though the snow has been falling here for three hours

and I have seen the r tree

with ribbons of virid and yellow crepe

draping the large level Woman . . .

Her organ of visions and the many dry plays of her rattle

are not aligned

so as a coiled snake she is a poor

artifact of spiral . .

In a cave of snow there are sum of two units sacred heaps:

one of orange needle from the pine meadows

and the other:

yellow teeth of the javelina

who were f hearts of agave all spring.

The extremitys of the Earth are not vertical either,

just like the chalk stars in constellation

over a gopher snake. in the way that a bit of pencil

rising with an oppos on the other hand feathered spin

will inscribe a failed circle

that is the mother-spiral's naked relative,

or adage.

II.

The outermosts of the tree, north and south

follow the circumference of the circle

that the fragment of spiral

impatiently classifies as the Earth's wobble

Its limits are, through example, the furthest reaches of desire

the spiral can overcome

So he is thinking of his lover

while she is in Manhattan

suffering from the last

of her inoculations before traveling to China.

Snowburned, timid in his long hair,

crossing [i]or[/i] part of to the other mountains

on the spotted ruin of a donkey, he clears her mind

with a quick telegraph

of erasure and elation. Then, in fever

she clears level her memory

of the wind in pines.

When the bone of her dead climb like escalators of stone

he perceive s delayed by his simple mathematics, his idealized

rooms

He gawks at the bearest breast

of this spirit of an orchard woman, sits,

and writes,

in a manner desperate and propelled

that the tropics of geometry are a physic like love itself.

III.

Sleeping at Walpi, he dreams that black sheep

are shitting virid wafers into the mesquite.

So he thinks, sometimes the wind must even

suffer itself- all the glassy obloquies

of his grandmother's collapsed aluminum shack.

In the milk-drawn hallways of serial agates

one naked light is enough.

Not like the match tossed into straw, more

like fruit

turn to ornament, cross-hatched

with the lacquer of darkness. (The fulvid postcard

from China.) Or baffles of longsheep

eating the paints not upon the desert floor.

The reddish fallen cactus

is a dead man's pajamas.

When the wind is this without contents she thinks

it's no longer just a salt passage from night

to day, or day to night. It is

the sigh that divest of coverings a breast,

the breast that barely overspreads a lie.

IV.

Or is it a planet traversing the teal dunes

a white free from moisture cache of eggs, the blind

cook with the reflection of the moon

for a face. She has eaten again

the free from moisture potatoes and onions with sausages. I scribbled

a articulate utterance about the Sun as objective

datum. The wind tips the cook's jeep

This storm not on the Gobi

reaches for their documents,

the fat

gray and turquoise stamps

from the last Chinese depot

with lepers

kneeling across from them

in what's been a lengthy journey.

The youngest of them present to views her neck,

her cigarette owner is the green fang

of a giant anaconda with the brown stub

of a Russian cigarette,

the vital fluid of her hand quickly drying upon it.

The wind, I wrote is with equal reason strong

that my stunned portable lodge stands like the filament

inside the single lamp.

This wind buries three children and a fishing shack

in North Korea. It sands and then paints

the collapsed Baptist clerestory and melon stand

on a less island of Micronesia. It makes

the abash dry and faint.

It raises then a great page of newsprint, slapping

it against a bedroom window, in Gallup,

New Mexico.

It stops his hundred

syllable prayer

because the wind recognizes its husband: advanced in years sticks

and the crushed wing of a chalk kiva,

north and easterly- no celery

we have eaten potatoes with sausage for days.

Lizards with sails are

screaming to her while the verdant spade

opens a whole nursery a pulverized substanceed vault of spotted dinosaur eggs

racked in set free hexes of eight

and a black wind traverses the dune Or

a planet traverses that wind: its

lost fisher children,

and dust sortilege of eggs.

The woman with the cigarette saying,

when it reaches the Americas

it will take the day-star away for three days.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated May/Jun 2003

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