i run to make the fire sign
to be chased by a hundred
years of dissolving bone
beads in a government glass case
on display somewhere in Alabama.

i go to find the First-Coyote-Made-From-Water
inside the sidewalk lines of lightning bolts
full of fire ants beaming
in quiet march beyond their teeming
bowl of sand.

we go together these legs and me
sweating, panting, muscles painted
red-alive inside soft-skin corn
husks that ache and strain their roots.
we go across the green and haunted lawn
where once into an ailing building junkies snuck
and slept. they are like the coyote too but sick
with the sky-cloud disease that turns blood into
whisp and white. beneath green blankets now
sleeps the building broken down, tumbled
for a playground yellow,
red, blue.

i run to know the afters, the old man
speaking his father tongue to the young anthropologist
who writes and…