We are a people of many woodpiles

marines array like rafts in paris

in lesser palestine
the pick-up stick kids have
little form and less function

their wicked-good throwing arms
and whippet-slim waists
wait in emergency room
white tape for red belts

wedding parties in the rock lofts have
bouquets not ready
for burning
so they spin skyward

arab cowboys on horseback sever sudanis like once strands o bamboo

and we count coup on brown or fine feral horsemen

we force long walks from home
we favor their fear
among tepee-tall rocks
that feed not even a bum steer

cochise and santa ana cross
nodding in the sun their displacements

say something nice ... or not

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