he, of green-chili hair and 
                                    red clay skin 

the boy, 
            with history caught in his throat
has me
                                    caught 

in the early morning blue 

we, and all creation—

                                                     painted on the sky

              (time, dirt, sandstone)

the boy of early dawn 

is holding me 

                          high enough to face the remnants of stars

                          i am a wisp of smoke on his breath, a whisper,

a prayer against the coming light

seeping into sky and rock, 

                                                 night’s curtain 

                                            lifted

we, now deeper than the canyons

                                         more gentle than the sage  

(i’ve seen you in my desert,  
              the smell of you on my skin
                          like earth.)