WEBVTT

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OK.

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Now we're going to get into--

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We're past the
warm up period now.

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Here we go.

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I picked piñons at Gallina's
Peak on knees beneath piñon

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tree.

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Sift shell wood petals in
black, grainy dirt chips

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that inscribed the
time on my fingertips

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as I scratched the Earth
when Earth made hands bleed

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and cracked and gave
meaning to our pain.

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I throw a coat on the
ground and shake the tree,

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palm piñons in the coffee can,
then knock pocket knife handle

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against stubborn acorns,
fringed with thawing ocher.

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And the brown shell
dreamers softly

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drop into the can, held
aloft beneath each cone.

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My hand goes to catch up
piñon, and I hear a murmur

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in the tree's tongue, brush my
bare arm and tell of a stable

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world.

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It's getting dark.

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I sit on a boulder and
scan the valley below.

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Hidden rock hollows are rooms
at the end of a long mansion

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corridor, where the
wind is a small boy who

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practices piano fingering key
after key for a missing note.

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The boy plays a melody of a
one legged man, one armed man,

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one eyed man, one.

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All alone in my imbalance.