Kate Buss

ABOVE the steep arroyo of russet running straight with rose

The Pecos pueblo sleeps—

A mound of dust timbered with bones.

Three silver yuccas flower on the grave.

For headstone, cut by frost and all its edges shriveled by the desert heat,

A mission leans against the wide still sky.

I too am watching with time.

Where I stand, the crusted gravel cracks

And ghosts of seven centuries are stirred.

Shards of painted pots lie like mosaic on a shattered floor.

A frost-white shin-bone rattles down the slope,

Strikes a fellow and finds the plain.

Jaws are set and dead mouths smile—

Bones of martyrs, pioneers.

Feet that once were dancing lie with rain gods,

And thin broken spears.