The Blue-Painted Distance

Torn are the pages from the calendar,

the days fluttering past the train’s window,

the speed of  which has yet to be perceived

for at each seat more immediate

are the books about to be opened,

the wax-papered sandwiches eaten,

the bottles of  strawberry soda consumed.

The journey between birth and death

are the stations of  joy and sorrow

or simple idleness

when what remains in relief

can be as inconsequential as an unexpected

delay that finds you wandering

through an afternoon of an old museum.

Indistinguishable are the adornments

from useful implements,

the ill-lit displays of  rocks and shards

you circle as if  in a maze,

remembering the oddity of  it,

startling upon a haunting diorama.

Crouched around a glowing fire pit,

a family of   hunters and gatherers

huddles beneath sheltering skin.

All around are the articles of  abundance—

meat slabs draped like heavy

blankets on a rack,

geometric rows of  threads

dangling from a loom.

The ephemeral made tangible,

tongues of cellophane flames

cleverly quiver to convey

a sense of warmth.

Pulled into the scene

you follow the trail of smoke

across the blue-painted

distance of  mesas dotted with bison.

Wigs of  black twigs—

someone’s idea of  indigenous hair—

hide the faces of  the elders.

Strapped onto its mother’s back,

the lone baby stares unblinkingly at the sky.

No one has thought to shut

its eyes against the sun, the glare,

the rolling cloud waves of  hooves and dust,

the flies that will surely come.