My little broken world
has your fingerprints all over it,
loops and whorls and arches, Canyonlands
in exquisite four-syllabled miniature
calling to mind the Goosenecks of the San Juan
downriver from Mexican Hat,
a dusty village where we had Navajo tacos.
Finger prints on the broken pieces,
shards in the midden pile
beside scraps of woven yucca cord,
bits to be picked over.
We are standing at the overlook
en route to the Moki Dugway
watching the ravens at play
on heat rising off vermillion walls.
They beckon me in rough croaking voices
to join them, to fly on the silent air,
to make the world whole, wholly whole.