here, everything has an echo

trish’s offering of 
as a form of 
cheering me on
what looks like a border patrol headquarters
(seemingly white trucks with green stripe)
from a distance near the intersection of
siringo road and yucca street as my lungs
adjust to the 7,000 feet as i run
into the cold morning 
but i know i’m not in southern arizona anymore
all of the stereotypes are true franco says of his native miami

jessica and i pathcrossing in the kitchen
both at breakfast and dinner
me cooking high-altitude quinoa (meaning, i just keep adding that water)
and her cooking beat egg mixed into water with a some oil
and a little bit of salt/sugar (in place of the chicken bullion)
living poor in parts of china she says my parents learned
to add water to the eggs
to make them go further
(flan-like  she says about the finished dish)

here, everything has an echo
that reverberates at least 5 times
(imagine, then, the punch
of every letter
of a page-and-a-half-long poem)

the little hail/big snowflakes i scoop with my finger
from the chair outside room #2’s back door
and lick up
tasting santa fe winter

it’s not intentional joolie says
but it’s not thoughtful either

how i lay on the bathroom tile
in the skylight glow
(whiteish blueish light)
marveling at the sound of rain/snow/hail against it
this is the shape that closeness to the natural world takes

the glare of orange industrial light
that meets each night glance
out the backdoor window of room #2
the decadance of bare feet on a 
radiant heat cement floor
stirred out of possible sleep
by #3’s  phone conversation at 
i write a list
of the local sacred and profane


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