Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash.You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire.

I had come this far without the elegance of speech. ... I could not speak coherently. I stuttered in my mind. I could not express my perception of the sacred. I could speak everyday language: Please pass the salt. I would like . . . When are we going . . . I'll meet you there. I wanted the intricate and metaphorical language of my ancestors to pass through my language, my life.

But what captured him was a light in the riverfolding open and openblood, heart and stonesshimmering like the Milky Way.

and this achethis trembling achehaunts me endlesslylike you.

She sees Lake Michigan lapping at the shores ofherself. It is a dizzy hole of water and the richlive in tall glass houses at the edge of it.

Sometimes it is likefacing the dreamerwho knows the youof blood and stars—

Some will not see them.But some will see the horses with their hearts of sleeping volcanoesand will be rocked awakepast their bodiesto see who they have become.

We get franticin our loving.The distance between Santa Fe and Albuquerqueshifts and changes.It is moments;it is years.I am next to youin skin and bloodand then I am not.I tremble and graspat the edges ofmyself; I let gointo you.

The Poem I Just WroteThe poem I just wrote is not real.And neither is the black horsewho is grazing on my belly.And neither are the ghostsof old lovers who smile at mefrom the jukebox.