Motion

          We get frantic

          in our loving.

          The distance between

          Santa Fe and Albuquerque

          shifts and changes.

          It is moments;

          it is years.

          I am next to you

          in skin and blood

          and then I am not.

          I tremble and grasp

          at the edges of

          myself; I let go

          into you.

          A crow flies over

          towards St. Michaels,

          opens itself out

          into wind.

          And I write it to you

          at this moment

          never being able to get

          the essence

                             the true breath

          in words, because we exist

          not in words, but in the motion

          set off by them, by

          the simple flight of crow

          and by us

                         in our loving.