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Tent RocksHaving been through so manyI do not even bother to hope that you, with your ardor and constancy, may be the one though I love how you whisper my name, the actions that you take, and the years that sheltered you in marriage from the repeated disappointments that make a man cavalier and cold. We go down in the canyon of volcanic rock where what remains are the shapes of teepees aslant, tall narrow cones, each balancing a rounded stone. It is the February thaw, a blue jay is fooled into friendliness, more people are on the path. You hold me here and moan like the wind coming through the close passages. Later, when we make love, the first time, we are afraid and want to turn away. But don't. I am no longer young and still, am not sure I'll know when my mate is with me, admiring the certainty of those who say, "You must feel this, you will know that." We stand on the mesa while the mating hawks fly over, their nests on the edges of the rock. You do not falter. You have come to me, you touch me all over. |
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Issue #15, April, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.