The poem weeps, prays,
crawls on his knees
to Chimayo, New Mexico,
enters the chapel where he's
seized with a vision of words so clear
he dashes his superfluous glasses
against the adobe wall & lays
their twisted frames in the spectacular
pile of discarded crutches, braces,
prosthetic aids, plaster casts & ill-fitting
false teeth; he's past ecstatic, his life
rolls out before him, a long
rectangular Boschian canvas, each
figure absolutely detailed, symbolic;
then, standing to go, emerging into
the red afternoon dustlight of Chimayo,
finds he can't see a thing, stumbles
to the highway, hitchhikes home & the next day
goes to the doctor, who tosses new glasses his way
which the poem puts on/ sees the bill,
astronomical, detailed only as:
Price paid: cheap thrill.

Gerald Fleming
Contents | Mudlark No. 3
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