Pillion

Pale-faced, never in control:
remember to cry; it’s a buzz.
We live, for then we die – or
did i hear that in some song?

Pillion, side-saddle, tempt
the verge: a highway’s inside
sources repeat the same old
symbols. Leather, road, light.

Death is short: only life
lingers. Maps of Pueblo design
evoke grander gestures, sigh
like oaks. She-oaks, Indians

crossing from our reversed
dispersal. Who’s that diving
in the river? Shadow him,
follow close ñ Shenandoah.

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