My friend drove an hour each day from the mountains. I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin. Was it the ghost god himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly? Was it the young woman learning to play the ghost song on her baby grand? Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement. were just running around freaking out, and just leaped into my soul. "The reaction I get now thinking about it, looking back - is that the souls of the ghosts of those dead Indians. I musta' been about four - like a child is like a flower, his head is floating in the breeze, man." "Me and my - mother and father - and a grandmother and a grandfather - were driving through the desert, at dawn, and a truck load of Indian workers had either hit another car, or just - I don't know what happened - but there were Indians scattered all over the highway, bleeding to death." Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind. Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding ![]() Smug in the woolly cotton brains on infancy. | Poetry | An American Prayer |Ĭhoose the day and choose the sign of your dayĪ vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moonĬouples naked race down by its quiet side
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