indian summer
It was the summer of grasshoppers
and Sleep, sleep
all my father could say
was Sleep, sleep.
The ponies couldn't run down by the church
their tongues licked and licked the air.
My brother told me They're catching salt
but I didn't bel9ieve him, wouldn't believe
ever since he said the sun could change its mind
and I woke up early for a week, still in the dark
and watched the sun rise from the west constantly.
It was the summer of battered grass
and empty taps. NO WATER, NO WATER
except in the uranium river
where Billy Nomad broke his neck
diving into the shallows.
The old school caught fire
and no one noticed
until it jumped from brick to pine
from pine to pine, from pine to skin.
My hair bled ash.
It was the summer of the continual powwow
and Ernie Game never wore a shirt or socks
but still managed enough gas money to get back home.
Some Skin was always bouncing a basketball
over pavement, against ceiling and walls.
Once, I followed the sound, triangulated position
but could never find its source.
There have been smaller mysteries.
It was the summer of unbraided hair
and Hush now! You ask too many questions
when I wondered why Indians always die by threes.
One, like a divining rod bent down to the ground.
Two, like a quilt imperfectly patched.
Three, like the sky folding over its horizon.