Comanches dreamed a dreamtown
by the river—covey call—complete
with plaza and los àlamos for shade,
Spanish curtains lifting in the breeze
(optional). And finally got it, about the time
of the Bastille, Santa Feans put it up
to keep the peace a week
or two: Fat diplomats, otoño.
They lived there overwinter,
until the headman’s wife took fever
and died. And that was that,
moved out next day forever.

Now no one can find the place.
Place the find can one no now.
Let’s slip into that field tonight
and see if those 500 melons are ripe.

         Merlin burns
         a smokering through
         the air.

         Greasewood
         in numbers more lovely
         than hair.