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50 To m S h e e h a n Burial for Horsemen (For my father, blind too early.) The night we listened to Cochise’s life on records, and shadows remembered their routes up the railed stairway like a canyon’s presence, I stood at your bed counting the days you had conquered. The bottlecap moon clattered into your room in vagrant pieces . . . jagged blades needing a strop or wheel for stabbing, great spearhead chips pale in falling, necks of smashed jars rasbora bright, thin flaked edges tossing off the sun. Under burden of the dread collection, you sighed and turned in quilted repose and rolled your hand in mine, searching for lighting only found in your memory. In moon’s toss I saw the network of your brain struggling for my face the way you last saw it, a piece of light falling under the hooves of a thousand Indian ponies, night campsites riding upward in flames, the prairie skyline coming legendary again. ...

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