Pete Warzel


What will you remember my sons?
And when? Do you know
Those moments are fluid
And like the cold, perfect
Rivers we fished, leave layers
And sediment that is the true
Measure of time, so where
Are the moments beneath
These deposits? I still have
The sandstone egg we captured
At the South Desert where
The wind cleaned us, and
The potshards from Puyé,
Black geometry shattered
Like a clue and the pocked
Lava at La Plaza Blanca
Where we played Indian games
Then became cavalry.
Or is your memory
Of the enmity in our
First family and the routs
And shoes splattering the walls
Or of questions and answers
And excursions on gravel
Roads to escape the howl
And the horizon?
This could be the probanza
that when the time is right
we gather and eat oysters
and beer and establish the codes
for our new myths, then you
kick out the plug and I am
grateful leaving you.

Location: Denver, Colorado

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