Peaked high and red, aged striated layers hypnotized me. I slept between them, became a towering landform. Grit still in my teethe. How long has it been sitting here? Pines punctuate the sharp angles and that Pawnee has tracked me into Shadow Mesa talking so much about All Nations, and no, I’m not goin. That river cuts and is shaking, I think. Yet smooth and lovely as clay from my wheel. I’m sure it’s not real in its captivating movement, slow and languid as someone else’s beautiful summer. The dry boulders outside Grand Junction – just look at them and they’ll topple over off the cliffs and canyons. Hurt you and take you away, deep into winter’s snow again. You have disappeared. The unreal real water, snakes, moves over itself in many places at one time, but remains still, inviting, looking warm, an appearance there, a song on the water. Who carries the messenger bag? That mullein towering so high. Let’s all be as vast as this part of Colorado. Make love in Telluride; eat our fresh fruit at the junction, white paper bags stuffed with cherries tart and sweet with the first pick of the season. I will forget now where I come from and the hurt in my heart, I am forgetting now, I am going to forget… hey you wanna trade for that belt buckle?