Backwards

          The moon that night was thrown

          off the bridge, the one near Mesita

          the tracks crawl under—

          I was driving over when I saw it;

          white skeleton laying on the

                                                          blood ground,

          fallen moon rolling up

                                                 the bone railroad

          whirring of soft seeds and thunderstorms

          caught in stiff skin rattles.

          Something tries to turn the earth

          around. Blue dawn to the yellow west.

          California to New York.

          This has been going on

          since I don’t know when,

                                                    baby.

          “. . . when the dance is over, sweetheart

          I will take you home in my one-eyed Ford . . .”

          The moon came up white, and torn

          at the edges. I dreamed when I was

          four that I was standing on it.

          A whiteman with a knife cut pieces

          away

                    and threw the meat

                                                      to the dogs.