Graham Burchell

The Next State

(Arriving in New Mexico 11/27/2005)

So, there we were
in our gray seats, tiltable by degrees,
at the discretion of a uniformed lady
with pressed tight hair, common spit,
and slack lips smiling us
into another land within the same,
where the wet of the air had dried and cooled,
drawing artists to clean light
gathered in a spirit laden sky.
It was cheek cold on this winter's edge.
People crowded into sock end huddles
to brave wind that snatched golden leaves
and burnt adobe corners smooth.

The Road Beyond Roswell
(U:S:20, New Mexico - 11/30/2005)

Take a look at this madness!

It is a ballroom where the wind may vaunt,
and everything solar may pose in bright gowns?

Black pavement sliced through it, yet makes no barrier
for that high on energy, scuffing cracked grasses,

rattling the last dry seeds over scruff carpet.
It's a coyote's unwashed fleece -- ripe to be stomped.

Here is insignificance, treeless families
clinging to bleached sod. They are the masses,

cushioning players that fail to notice
the clear chill dragged behind them in winter;

a slow waltz breeze, or a tango gusting spirals,
danced in morpho blue dresses and long shadow tails.

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