After Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “See That My Grave is Kept Clear” (Canyon Take) 11 November, 2018

. . . . do not clean my grave keep, rather scatter with autumn, debris, one kind, trampled by white horses,
xxxxxxxxxxxxlitter with wind-sifted husks of broken pupae, that coffin sound, favor shadows or favor
xxxxxxxbreath thorned wand of Russian olive, whirlwind

captured leaf (cottonwood, drifted for miles on thermals) waiting on my burying . . . . ground, devil-xxxxxxxxxxxdancing through dust, coyote scat, stone fractured, or melt of your shadow following me,
xxxxxxxthis morning’s tone. In gone moments

underground, before light, slow currents of desert fog drifting down the Rio Tesuque, fed
xxxxxxxxxxxby the inversion’s downslip off the mesas, is what I saw when I turned my eyes back
xxxxxxxacross the barrancas toward you: canyons filled with colts

working the water we have never walked through. Under bell-tolls I continue
xxxxxxxxxxxto marvel the difference between cognizance and knowledge, the imagined
xxxxxxxbody, apprehension filtered by senses other 
than sight, copper scent of blood, pewter

scent of love, odor of sex like wet aspen. After the fires, stopped . . . . is the new-growth xxxxxxxxxxxaspens’ offspring or clones of seared ancestors? Heart ash, fragile as tears,
xxxxxxxthe eyes, or the way you bare your teeth when you shape the beginning

of your cry, or take back your breath . . . one craved favor, taste of skin under tongue,
xxxxxxxxxxxone clean kept grave