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Burnt Horses PantoumAt the funeral she cracks a joke. Deathit seems is afraid of nothing. Irreverent and uneconomical. First met her at Burnt Horses, She says, "You were afraid of me then. Still are." We seem afraid of nothing, irreverent at Ojo Caliente on her birthday with her friends. She says, "You were afraid of me then." Still air. We soak in the soda pool, linger in iron. At Ojo Caliente on her birthday, her friends are the best. Impeccable taste in women and books. We soak in the soda pool linger in iron. The river is marvelous, our blood heats. We are the best, impeccable in friendship. Books on his makeshift bookshelves sit in austere ceremony. There is a marvelous river of blood. We are the students of mortality at Ojo Caliente. Wooden crates, makeshift shrine with austere ceremony, incense burning, the Heart Sutra, no anything, the economy of students of mortality. At Community College her students give her money in two dollar bills. Burning incense, the heart sutured. The false economy of longing. Proclamations of grief. She says, "Never." Her students offer money in strange denominations. On Sabbath we feast as in the Garden of Eden. In longing, grief proclaims never and nobody will ever replace. He gave her a child's golden crown. On Sabbath we feast as in Eden. We are eating of this life and queens of the next. We will never replace him. He gave her a golden crown. At the funeral Death cracks a joke. We are eating of this life and queens of the next. Comical. We met at a book store called Burnt Horses. |
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Issue #17, September, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.