Observation of Blood

Today, the museum closes its doors early,
waiting;
how much of the night’s bleakness
seeps into it, enjoying the dark corridors.
The Indian tents with pointed frames,
like spears of bone, stand pierced
in the empty lobby, lonely,
waiting;
how the winter wind cuts through it.
As the cold artifacts of the museum
catch the outside glow,
the carnivalesque slaughter brings
laughter to civilization.

Denver’s rain is absent and dry,
the natives of the Arapaho
meditate on the sacred mountain
when the invaders come.
I watch how blood spreads—
past and present—and death favors
their flesh, buried under black moonlight
by fire and sword.
Left with sword marks,
they dye the river bend with blood,
winding like red silk;
now it leaves collections
lying in the museum of darkness.
Their bones cannot be read,
as their residues are covered
under the ash of death.

Inside or out, there is no sweetness—
only the salty taste of blood.
The truth sinks and vanishes;
as for the sleeping city folks,
the moon is clear tonight.