Aztec RuinsStanding here at the beginning of the ruins, we inhabit
a sky full of cries too numerous and varied
to be identified. And what would we
The bird that cries like a man....
the bird that buzzes
with the locust pinched in the thumbs of a branch, the bird
with the voice of a broken whistle,
one last breath....just before
it breaks, the bird whose periodic
cry is a bright thread through the bullrushes....
These warbles, clicks, cries of surprise
throng us with a language
we do not understand
our own voice, the lost voice
of our fathers meeting our mothers so long ago,
the voice of whatever calls
us into being...
Issue #11, September, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.